





























f 














Off the Skelligs. 


A NOVEL. 


JEAN INGELOW. 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND CO. 
1910. 



author’s edition. 



1 


University Press: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


CHAPTER I. 

There were giants on the earth in those days. — Gen. vi. 4> 

Seigneur! preservez-moi, preservez ceux que j^aime, 

Fr^res, parens, amis, et mes ennemis meme ; 

Dans le mal triomphants 

De jamais voir Seigneur! I’^t^ sans fleurs vermeilles, 

La cage sans oiseaux, la ruche sans abeilles, 

La maison sans enfans 1 — Victor Hugo. 

M y father’s house stood in a quiet country town 
through which a tidal river flowed. The baiiki 
of the river were flanked by wooden wharves, 
which were supported on timbers, and projected over 
the water. They had granaries behind them, and one 
of my earliest pleasures was to watch the gangs of men 
who at high tide towed vessels up the river, where, 
being moored before .these granaries, cargoes of corn 
were shot down from the upper stories into their holds, 
through wooden troughs not unlike fire-escapes. The 
back of my father’s house was on a level with the 
wharves, and overlooked a long reach of the river. 
Our nursery was a low room in the roof, having a large 
bow-window, in the old-fashioned seat of which I spent 
many a happy hour with my brother, sometimes listen- 
ing to the soft, hissing sound made by the wheat in its 
descent ; sometimes admiring the figure-heads of the 
vessels, or laboriously spelling out the letters of their 
names. 

When the tide was low there was fresh pleasure. 
Then we could watch the happy little boys, who, with 

1 A 


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OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


trousers tucked above their knees, used to wade among 
the piles which were all green with sea-grass and brist-- 
ling with barnacles. We could see them picking up 
empty shells and bits of drift-wood in the yellowish 
mud, or sometimes one of them would discover an old 
pot or kettle, on which he would drum and play uncoutL 
music. Joyous urchins! I was too complete a bab} 
to envy them ; but I thought how grand a lot was 
theirs. 

I had a brother two years older than myself.. Before 
I could speak he had taught me my letters, and I used 
to pick them up and present them to him as he called 
for them. Of course he was a tiny child at the time, 
but to me he appeared very large. Nothing has 
changed to me since babyhood so much as opinions 
concerning size and height. Truly, ‘ there were giants 
on the earth in those days.’ All grown-up people 
appeared to me to be nearly of a size — my father was 
\ giant, my mother was a giantess, my brother was 
irge, knowing, old, and never sufficiently to be re- 
spected. Rose trees were trees indeed, and no bushes 
then! I pulled the roses down to smell them, and I 
put up my finger into the flowers of the tall tiger lilies 
8 I stood on tip-toe under them, and regarded the dark 
lust that came off upon it as something remarkable 
procured from a higher sphere. 

When my nurse took me up in her arms, oh, what 
pleasure to see the things on the table, to look down 
on that distant place, the floor, and see my little sister 
creeping there. 

A report reached me one day (not, however, ft-om a 
trustworthy source, for it was our little housemaid who 
brought it to me) — a report to the effect that 07ic% 1 
had been a little baby like her ! That must have been 
a long time ago, I thought. I pondered on it, but it 
seemed unlikely, and I did not believe it. 

But as the rich go from their town houses to their 
country seats, and as the Vicar of W akefleld and ii •• 
Primrose migrated from the blue bed to the brown, 
we had our periodical changes. Life in the nurseru 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


was well enough, but life in the best bed-room smacked 
of the sublime. 

The nursery, being in the roof and facing south, 
became glowing hot towards afternoon ; but in the 
front of the house was a large, delightful room, with 
closed shutters, into which, on our promise to be quiet, 
our nurse would often take us, and folding back one 
of the shutters allow us to admire the chintz curtains 
all gay with apple boughs and goldfinches flying with 
spread wings. Then she would let us climb on to the 
window-seat, and there we enjoyed hours of contempla- 
tion, and hours of talk unintelligible to any but to 
ourselves. 

What a world those windows opened out to us. 
They looked into the Minster yard. It was smooth 
and paved with flagstones, and in its midst rose the 
great brown Minster, the old Minster that was full of 
little holes, and had a bird’s head peeping out of each. 

Oh, to see the rooks and starlings poised on the 
swaying weathercocks; to hear the great clock give 
warning ; to listen to the bells and shout to each other 
while their clashing voices hummed and buzzed around 
us and over us; to see the clergymen walking in to 
prayers, and all the blue-coat boys and girls trooping 
after them ; to watch the father rooks as they flew home 
with wriggling worms in their mouths ; to see the little 
starlings creep out of their holes and sit in a row peck- 
ing and wrangling, — these were sights indeed. When 
shall pleasures for grown-up folks be found to match 
them! 

My brother was the hero of my history, and the being 
whom I imitated to the utmost of my power. He was 
a very remarkable child and had such a retentive mem- 
ory, that as soon as he tsi^uld speak he could learn by 
heart anything that wa» repeated slowly to him, whether 
he understood it or not. 

Our father, perceiving his extraordinary precocity, 
was very proud of him, and taught him several seenes 
from Shakespeare which he used to let him act, makint^ 
him stamp, frown, and use all kinds of appropriate ge?j^ 


4 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


tures, and exciting him by praises and rewards. He 
little knew the mischief that he was doing by forcing 
such a brain. On the contrary, he thought education 
Could not begin too early ; and, not content with the 
progress his child made at home, he sent him at four 
years old to a lady, who engaged to ‘ bring him forward.’ 
\jnder her teaching he mastered reading very quickly, 
and, reading once learned, vain would have been the 
attempt to keep him back in other things. He loved 
best a large old edition of Shakespeare. And our nurse 
used to let him carry it up into the nursery, because 
poring over i\, kept him so quiet. 

Every scene that he liked he learned. Fighting and 
slaying scenes were his favorites ; and when he knew 
them by heart he would shut up the folio, stand upon 
it, and begin to act, while I, being the audience, sat on 
the floor and stared admiringly. He would pretend tc 
cry, would hold out his little hand with a menacing air, 
then fall down on the floor with a solemn face and a 
deep sigh, which gave me to understand that he was 
dead, and that his enemies had killed him. 

All this my brother did and learned, over and above 
what he was taught by the lady to whom he was sent 
for instruction, and my mother never discovered it ; 
otherwise I believe she would have found some less 
dangerous amusement for him. But she was very deli- 
cate, and we seldom saw her, for she could not endure 
the least noise, and constantly suffered from headache. 

At last, one day, ‘Snap,’ — for that was the only 
name by which I knew him, this sound having been the 
first my baby lips had uttered in their apprenticeship 
to the art of talking, — Snap was seen by me lying on 
his little bed, the doctor standing on one side and my 
mother on the other. 

I was not distinctly sorry for Snap, as not under- 
standing why he was to be pitied — he was not crying, 
conseque jtly I did not think he could be hurt, but I 
wanted to kiss him. Therefore I crept up to his bed 
and patted his face, but he did not wake. Something 
nice was brought to him to eat, but as he would not 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S 


5 


have it they gave it to me, aiiO I ate it for him A 
long time after this Snap got up again ; his hair was 
very short, and he could not walk, but used to creep on 
nands and knees like our little sister. I thought 
this very droll, and tried to imitate him, but he soon 
learned to walk again, and then we thought it very 
strange when nurse told us that he was not to go to 
school any more for a long time, not to have Shake- 
speare, and not to learn anything at all. 

Snap cried when the great Shakespeare was carried 
out of the nursery, and he often wearied of looking out 
of the windows at the ships and at the Minster. At 
last, having absolute need of something to do, he be- 
thought himself, as I suppose, that it would be a desira- 
ble thing to make an occupation of me, and every day 
he taught me scenes and songs, making me a willing 
little slave, and being kind to me on the whole, though 
he felt a natural disgust at my not being able to speak 
plainly, for I lisped after the fashion of very young 
children, and sometimes^ wished to lie down on the floor 
and go to sleep in the middle of his lesson. 

Every day, after we had dined, our dear mamma would 
come into the nursery and inquire whether we were 
good, putting her white hand to her brow, and saying 
wearily, ‘ I hope my boy is quiet, nurse, and not doing 
anything particular.’ 

‘Bless me! no, ma’am,’ the answer would be, ‘the 
children are at play together.’ Then she would gt 
down again, and Snap would begin his daily lesson to 
me. 

Every alternate day the old physician would appear 
with mamma, and call Snap to come and stand before 
him. He seldom looked satisfied, and often said, ‘1 
hope this child has not been excited ? ’ 

‘ I cannot do more to prevent excitement,’ our mother 
would reply. ‘ I never let him learn anything ; I nev«r 
have him down-stairs with me; I quite debar mysell 
the pleasure of my children’s society.^ 

‘ Quite right, ma’ara,’ the old physician used to answer 
‘keep h'm quiet, and he will be a man yet.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 


« 

At last one day, about six months after Snap*s illness, 
they came in when we were in very high spirits chasing 
one another round the nursery, and the physician said 
to nurse with a displeased countenance — ‘ How now, 
my good woman! is this the sort of order you keep 
here ? ’ 

‘ How can I help their playing about, sir ? ’ she an- 
swered coldly. 

‘ Their playing about I do not so much object to,’ he 
replied, ‘ but I must protest against the boy’s spouting 
Shakespeare so noisily all the time.’ 

This good doctor had a strong north-country accent ; 
but I do not think I should have remembered him and 
his speeches so well, if my brother had not been in the 
habit of acting over what he had said, and imitating 
his accent, when he retired. 

■ And the little girl looks very much excited too,’ he 
said on this occasion ; ‘ I hope her brain is not forced by 
over teaching ? ’ 

‘ She has never been taught anything in her life,’ said 
my mother ; ‘ she is in a state of complete ignorance.’ 

‘ She could not be in a better state, ma’am, at her 
tender age.’ 

‘ i^'o,’ observed nurse, ‘ Missy has had no book learn- 
ing ; but, ma’am, did you know that she could do that 
play acting nearly as well as Master Graham ? ’ 

I remember that my mother looked aghast on hearing 
this, and that Snap performed a dance of triumph about 
her chair. 

‘ Could I do acting ? ’ asked the physician. 

‘ Oh yes,’ I replied, and I began to pucker up my lit- 
tle face into one of Snap’s favorite tragic frowns, and 
to stamp about the nursery. 

The doctor laughed and said, ‘ Pooh ! ’ I was very 
much surprised, for I had been told that it was rude to 
•ay pooh. 

But while I wondered at him and his great red cheeks 
and his glossy shoes. Snap said, ‘ Missy can say Brutus 
and Cassius, can’t you. Missy ? I taught her, mamma ; 

I make her say it every day.’ 


OFF THE BRELLIQS. 


7 


* Tes, I can say Bruty and Gassy,’ I replied with 
smiling pride in the fact, that was a dagger to my 
mother’s heart. ‘Well, well, let us hear it, then,’ said 
the doctor; and after a short altercation between me 
and Snap, during which I insisted that I must have my 
pinafore taken off, and put on the paper cap which he 
called a helmet, I was placed upon the table, while my 
brother, shuffling in a manner which was intended to 
represent the footsteps of the Roman citizens, exclaimed, 
‘The noble Brutus is ascended — silence;’ and I be- 
gan in my baby dialect, ‘Romans, countrymen, and 
lovers — ’ 

Probably the doctor did not understand much of 
speech, for I was not more forward with my tongue 
than most children of my age, but he looked amazed* 
while I, changing from Brutus to Antony, went ot 
exclaiming and gesticulating, and while Snap, as a rabbl€ 
of Roman citizens, drummed on the table and stamped. 

I stopped short at — ‘ There burst his mighty heart,’ 
for, to my astonishment, I saw that poor mamma was 
sobbing and crying most bitterly. They took me down, 
and stroking her hand, I said, ‘Never mind, mamma, 
don’t cry — Caesar was a naughty man.’ 

She took me on her knee and wept as if her heart 
would break. Snap then came up and testified concern 
and amazement. 

‘ This is a blow, ma’am, certainly,’ said the good old 
doctor, ‘ but you must bear up against it as bravely as 
you can.’ 

‘ O nurse,’ sobbed my mother, ‘ I trusted you ; how 
could you deceive me ? ’ 

‘I did not intend, ma’am, to deceive you,’ replied 
nurse ; ‘ I never gave it a thought that their play could 
hurt them, and I am sure Missy has never had a day’s 
illness in her life ; nothing Master Graham has taught 
her can possibly have hurt her.’ 

After this we were taken out for a walk, and nurse 
said we had been naughty. We supposed we had; 
and we noticed that whenever from that time we asked 
the young nursemaid any question and she was inclined 


a 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


to answer it, nurse would say, ‘Hold your tongue, 
Maria, you know the children is not to know anything 
whatsoever.’ 

One night however, when nurse was gone down- 
stairs, I asked Maria why we were not to know any- 
thing, and she said, ‘Did^ I remember seeing those three 
pretty little graves in St. Mark’s churchyard, where my 
three little sisters were ? ’ I said, ‘ Oh yes, I remembere<i 
them very well.’ ‘ Did I wish to stay with papa and 
mamma, and Master Snap, or did I wish to g( and be 
with them ? ’ I thought I should like to stay. Then,’ 
she said, ‘ you must never do any play acting, nor learn 
anything that Master Snap wants to teach you, or else 
you will be obliged to go, as your little sisters did.’ 

Snap always said his prayers before he went to bed, 
and I knelt beside him and said the same words. I 
knew that there was a God, and that God was in heaven 
— that, I think, was the extent of my knowledge ; till 
one day while out walking. Snap and I passed a shop 
where some books were exposed for sale. They were 
old books, and in one which lay open was a print which 
represented some people standing in flames under a 
thing like the arch of a bridge. 

I asked Snap what that was. He answered in a 
whisper that that was the place where wicked people 
were put after they were dead. But I was not to tel! 
nurse that he had said so, because she would be so 
veiy angry, as I was not to know anything. 

Every day when we passed that shop I stood on tip- 
toe to look at this dreadful but fascinating picture ; and 
at night, when I was put to bed, I thought about it. 1 
asked Snap if it did not frighten him to think of it, but 
he said. No, he never thought of it at all. 

So now there were two things in the world to be 
afraid of, at least, when one happened to think of them ! 
The less formidable was this picture, the most so was 
the Ghost of CaBsar, which inhabited, as I supposed, a 
certain square closet in a room called the green bed- 
room, a closet which I never liked to see opened, even 
m the broadest daylight, till my nurse’s married sister 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


9 


coming over to spend the day with her, and hearing of 
this fancy of mine, carried me into it in her arms, 
showed me every crevice in the boards, let me peep into 
every boi?: it contained, and, still keeping me in her 
arms, gave me a nice piece of cake to eat within its 
dreaded precincts. After that, wherever the Ghost of 
Caesar might be, I felt sure that it was not there. 

About six months after this our nurse left us, and a 
young woman took her place who was a daughter of 
one of the sextons of the Minster. She had not been 
many weeks with us, when my mother continuing very 
unwell, papa took her away, and we did not see them 
again for a very long time. They were gone on the 
continent, we were told, and what the continent might 
be I never thought of inquiring. 

Snap was now quite well, and under the gentle do- 
minion of our new nurse we were very happy. She 
had one habit which procured for us many delightful 
hours. She liked to go into the Minster and talk to 
her father while he was sweeping and cleaning it. 
Sometimes other people were there to whom she talked, 
and while she did so. Snap and I crept admiringly 
about among the old carved work ; stole into the pul- 
pit, and peered down from it ; got into the organ gal- 
lery and saw the angels puffing their cheeks as they 
blew the trumpets, and the little cherubs so smiling 
and happy. No wonder, when each had got a beauti- 
ful pipe of his own to play upon ! Then we would go 
into the vestry and feel the great clamps of the parish 
chests, and look into the closet where the long white 
surplices were, which Snap said were the sort of gowns 
that ghosts always wore. 

Then we would steal hand-in-hand into the rich 
sunny west-end of the Minster. Here was a great 
window, an ancient one, full of prophets and kings, 
some on chairs, some on thrones, and some in the open 
country. A wonderful country this was, with trees 
like the trees in our Noah’s ark, and hills that went 
straight up to heaven, as might be seen by the angels 
that stood upon them. That they con-ectly represented 


10 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


the country they pictured, T did not in the least doubt 
any more than that all the prophets and kings were 
portraits, and good ones ! Consequently, when I saw 
‘ N oah ’ written under one of them (for I could read by 
tills time. Snap having surreptitiously taught me a good 
deal) — when, as I say, I saw '‘Noah^ I never doubted 
that he had, as there represented, yellow hair; and 
when I afterwards saw a picture of the Deluge, in 
which that patriarch was represented with dark locks, 
I thought what an ignorant person he must be that had 
painted it. 

Of the old sexton we soon became very fond, and 
he was equally fond of us ; therefore it was not won- 
derful that his daughter should often have brought us 
to him when she wanted to go out and enjoy herself, 
and left us till it suited her business or pleasure to 
come back again. 

She always took little Amy, our. sister, with her. 
She had been left by our parents in sole charge of us, 
and she immediately abused the liberty that she sud- 
denly found in her power. We were never the worse 
for it, so she by degrees left us more and more, and I 
have little doubt that the quiet old sexton, her father, 
was a far better guardian for us than she was. 

About this time a personage came upon the stage of 
our lives, who was known to the world as the ReVc 
Charles Mompesson, but by me known only by the 
name of Mompey. He was, when first I knew him, as 
young as he could be to be in orders, for, as I learned 
afterwards, he came to the place where we lived for a 
title. 

Mompey was exceedingly good to us, especially to 
me, whom he carried about as if I had been a doll, took 
me up the tower stairs in his arms, and showed Snap 
and me the great bells when they were ringing, and 
filling the whole chamber with a humming noise, as if 
all the bees in the world were swarming there, and let 
us put our fingers into the holes where the jackdaws 
and the sparrows build, and feel how warm their eggs 
were. 


OFF THE SKELIJOS 


11 


He was good, delightful, and beautiful. People who 
love children are generally endowed by them with this 
last attribute. Our eyes were influenced by our hearts, 
and we admired him so much that sometmes we could 
not help saying to him when he smiled on us, ‘ O Mom- 
pey, how beautiful you are ! ’ Upon these occasions he 
would sometimes tell us that other people did not agree 
with us in opinion ; and I do not doubt the correctness 
of his words, for he had slightly prominent teeth, which 
helped to increase the sweet expression of his amiable 
face, but certainly destroyed the regularity of the feat- 
ures ; and, moreover, his face was slightly, very slightly, 
marked with small-pox. The manner of his introduc- 
tion to us was this : 

Snap used to personate the characters that he saw in 
pictures; and being one day greatly fascinated with 
the oddity of a figure in one of the side-lights of the 
Minster, he sat before it on a bench, trying to give his 
face its strange expression, and no doubt succeeding, 
for he had marvellous powers of imitation. The figure 
— that of a saint in a blue baldric — sat on a high chair, 
with its legs hanging down, but not reaching the 
ground, and its feet, in their pointed shoes, serenely 
crossed. Its hands were also crossed, and lightly held 
a long willow branch, while its head, hanging afiectedly 
on one side, wore a smile half-innocent, half-foolish. 

Snap got a willow branch, a thing easily procured 
from the sexton’s little garden, and was sitting in the 
full enjoyment of his mimicry before the painted win- 
dow wlien Mr. Morapesson passed down the aisle. He 
stopped and stared, then laughed with irrepressible 
amusement. The imitation was too ridiculously good 
not to be perceived in an instant. 

Snap did not stir a muscle. In fact, he by no means 
supposed his personification to be absurd, he was only 
obeying the strong artistic feeling within him. 

‘ Who is this ? ’ said Mr. Mompesson. ‘ WLit in the 
name of wonder is the child doing ? ’ 

Upon this I, rising from the mat on which I had 
been sitting admiring my brother, exclaimed in my 


12 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


childihh piping voice, ‘That’s Snap; you must not 
speak to him now, because lie’s a mediaeval saint.’ 

‘ Oh, he is, is he ? ’ said Mr. Mompesson. ‘ Here, Wil- 
son! Wilson!’ 

Wilson, the sexton, soon appeared, and Mr. Mompes- 
son said, ‘ Wilson, look at this. These little children 
cannot possibly be allowed to make a play-room of the 
Minster.’ 

Wilson, as I remember, looked foolish, and replied that 
we never did any mischief ; and as for the little boy, he 
‘reckoned that he was a kind oinaturaV 

‘ But they have never played here before, for all that,’ 
he proceeded ; ‘leastways not to say play.’ 

Snap by this time had got down from his bench ; and 
when he heard this last remark he opened his eyes 
wide, and cried out, ‘ Oh, oh, didn’t you tell me to play 
at Brutus yesterday, and Missy was Lucius, and 
wouldn’t let Brutus wake her, but lay down and shut 
up her eyes quite tight ? And didn’t you, and Tarrant, 
and Smith, say it was just like a theatre ?’ 

‘You didn’t,’ said Wilson, reddening. 

‘We did,’ retorted Snap; ‘and Smith said, “Lord, 
how queer ; ” and I said he ought not to say so.’ 

‘ Why not ? ’ asked Mr. Mompesson. 

Snap pointed with his willow wand at the Command- 
ments, which were painted in gold and red and blue 
under the east window. ‘It says there that you 
mustnt take the Lord’s name in vain,’ he observed; 
and I wondered what he meant, though, true to my 
habit, I remembered his words all the more readily 
because I did not understand them. What was knov^n 
might be rubbed from the tablets of memory like a set- 
tled sum, but what was unknown remained to be worked 
out. 

Mr. Mompesson repeated to Wilson that we were not 
to play in the Minster any more, and asked us if we 
knew why; Snap was silent; I said ‘No;’ whereupon 
he took me up in his arms and said good little children 
came to church to pray to God and be taught how to 
please Him. It was only naughty little children who 
came there to play. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


13 


A puzzling assertion this to a child in whose mind 
was fixed the belief that it was good to play and not 
good to do anything else whatever. 

Mr. Mompesson took us home with him to his 
lodgings, and while he dined we sat beside him, making 
ourselves very much at home, and partaking of some 
radishes. 

This parlor was an odd, but a desirable abode ; it had 
seven sides, and one of its narrow windows looked on 
the Minster roof. It had been anciently part of a 
monastic house, and had carved work about it which 
resembled that in the Nave. 

From the window we looked at the many grotesque 
heads which adorned the flying buttresses of this said 
Nave. Some of them had open mouths, and these 
the charitable sparrows had crammed with straw, and 
gorged with tender nestlings ; others had shut mouths, 
and seemed to leer at the young sparrows and reprove 
their quarrelsome behavior. 

Snap and I were very happy in that little room, and 
1 have no doubt we were exceedingly queer children, 
for I remember how we made our host laugh that 
evening. 

Another young clergyman came, in to see Mompey 
before we went away, and he also laughed, specially 
when Snap and I pretended to be mediaeval saints. 
‘ The boy is a fine little fellow,’ I heard him say ; ‘ but 
as for the girl, she is all eyes.’ 

When I heard that, I thought how shocking it was 
to be ‘all eyes,’ and how good it was of papa and 
uamma to love me notwithstanding. 


14 


JFF THE SKELLiaa. 


CHAPTER II. 

[Enter the Ghost of Cowar.] 

Bbutus. Is not the leaf turned down 

Where I left reading ? There it is, I think. 

How ill this taper bums. Ha! who comes here? 

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 
That shapes this monstrous apparition. 

It comes upon me. 

A fter this we often saw Mr. Mompesson, and if ! 
had not been reminded of the picture by those 
grotesque heads which we could see from his 
window, I should have been very happy. 

As it was, there were occasions when a vivid fear of 
it would suddenly come up and overshadow my infant 
heart. I used then to creep behind the curtains of 
Snap’s bed, and cover my face with my hands, some- 
times shaking in all my limbs till I gave way to a pas- 
sion of screaming and crying. 

I never told any one what it was that frightened me, 
because my mother had said that I was not to know 
anything, consequently I thought I ought not to know 
this. 

One day, however, when I was playing in Mr. Mom- 
pesson’s room, I remembered those ugly faces, and 
crept up to him for protection, hiding my face in the 
folds of his gown, for he had just come in from the 
Minster, and was standing against a desk writing. He 
gave what he had written to a man who stood waiting 
for it, and then he took me upon his knee. 

I was cold. He warmed my hands in his large palm, 
and inquired whether anything was the matter, asking 
me if I was happy. I said ‘No,’ and when he asked 
why, I can remember that I shook my head, and said I 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


15 


must not tell him. He, however, repeated the ques- 
tion, and at last I confided to him as a great secret that 
there was a place where wicked men were put when 
they died, and that I had seen a picture of it. 

I whispered this to him with confidential earnest- 
ness, and on hearing it he started, and colored with 
that fine blush of shame sometimes seen on the faces of 
ingenuous young men. Perhaps he felt that such 
ignorance was a reproach to him, for he had kept us a 
great deal with him, and had only thought of amus- 
ing us. 

He asked me if I ever said my prayers, and I an- 
swered, ‘O yes,’ and kneeled on his knee repeating 
them to him. After this I think I inquired of him 
whether the picture did not make him unhappy also, 
and he answered, as Snap had done, ‘ O no ! ’ Did he 
ever think about it, then ? I asked ; he said he did, but 
that he was going out to see a poor man, and if I liked 
I might go with him, and play while he was in the cot- 
tage ; then after that he would talk to me and tell me 
why he was not afraid ; in short, he would tell me a 
beautiful story. I went with him in high glee. Our 
road lay through a timber-yard some way out of the 
small town : one side of it was shaded by a wood, and 
there were long piles of timber heaped up in this yard, 
and there were empty saw-pits and sheds where the 
saw-dust lay. 

I had often played with my brother and walked 
along the piles of timber. Mompey found a specially 
great pile, stretched himself upon it, and began to tell 
me the promised story. I had often heard stories 
before, but never one so beautiful and so wonderful as 
this. It was about a man whose name was Adam, and 
he lived in a garden, and he had a beautiful wife. 

I do not of course remember the words in which he 
arrayed the marvellous, mysterious history, but they 
must have been suited to my infant understanding, for 
this most wonderful of all stories but one presented 
visions to me of beauty that I had not imagined before, 
and o£ happiness indescribable. To live in a garden, 


16 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


and such a garden ! I thought how kind it was of God 
to give it them; and then I questioned the narrator 
about the soft shining rivers, and the grass all velvet-like 
with moss, the trees covered with citrons and over-hung 
with grapes — birds also singing on the branches, and 
not afraid when Adam and Eve drew nigh. 

‘ Might Eve gather the flowers? ’ I inquired — might 
she gather as many as she liked?’ 

‘O yes; God made them to grow on purpose for 
Adam and for Eve, and as long as they were good they 
were to live in that beautiful garden.’ 

Still, when I look back on that now distant day, 
the vision of Eden rises up before me as I saw it then, 
with lucid rivers slipping on beneath the flowing trees ; 
angels with long white wings moving about by the 
beautiful man and woman, or waiting till the voice of 
God should be heard in the cool of the day. 

I listened like one fascinated, questioning him again 
and again, and then he began to tell about the fair 
glittering serpent, how it tempted our first mother 
under the mysterious tree; and when I saw how it 
would end, I said, ‘ Oh dorUt let Fke gather the apple,’ 
and I hid my face among the daisies and began to cry. 

But I soon got up again, dried my eyes, and asked, 
‘ Did she really take the apple which God said she was 
not to have ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ Mr. Mompesson answered, ‘she did.’ 

How sorry I was for them. I heard how they were 
torn away from that happy place, and pitied them 
both, but my heart ached most for Eve. I thought the 
stones must have cut her feet, and I wondered whether 
Adam ever forgave her for persuading him to eat the 
apple. 

‘ She was very unkind,’ I remember saying, ‘ for now 
we had to live in a place not half so beautiful, and it 
was all her fault.’ 

‘ It did not signify,’ he answered. ‘ God loved us, 
though he had been displeased.’ When he had been 
to see the poor man he would tell me the rest of the 
story. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


17 


Sc he went through the little wood to the cottage, 
leaving me to play among the piles of wood. There 
was fine soft grass growing there, and there were just 
within the wood several young hawthorn-trees covered 
with bloom. 

I had still some misgiving as to whether it did not 
hurt Eve’s feet to walk on the grass in Eden, so I took 
ofl* my shoes and socks and ran about among the daisies 
and the buttercups. 

It was a most delightful sensation, that of walking 
about with bare feet. I enjoyed it that day for the 
first and last time. Now I was quite sure that Eve 
had been really happy in the garden ; and as I stepped 
about over the grass which was warm and glowing 
with the afternoon sun, I personated Eve in my 
childish heart, and stood under a may-tree, saying to 
myself, that if the serpent came I would not listen to 
him. 

Some people appear to feel that they are much 
wiser, much nearer to the truth and to realities than 
they were when they were children. They think of 
childhood as immeasurably beneath and behind them. 
I have never been able to join in such a notion. It 
often seems to me that we lose quite as much as we 
gain by our lengthened sojourn here. I should not at 
all wonder if the thoughts of our childhood, when we 
look back on it after the rending of this vail of our 
humanity, should prove less unlike what we were in- 
tended to derive from the teaching of life, nature, and 
revelation, than the thoughts of our more sophisticated 
days. 

However, this is mere speculation. While we are 
enveloped in the veil we cannot know who sees through 
it most clearly. 

I was putting on my shoes again, when Mr. Mom- 
pesson came back, and I remember that when I had 
settled the buttons to my mind I asked him to tell me 
the rest of that story, whereupon he sat down upon 
the timber, looking at me with his ordinary sweet ey- 
pression of grave calm. 


18 


OFF TEE SKELLIGii. 


* There was nothing more to be told about Eden, he 

(id. 

‘ Where was it now ? ’ I inquired. I wished to see 
•he outside of it. 

‘ Where was it ? it was gone. Men had travelled all 
over the world, but it was not to be found. Once 
there came a great flood of waters, and most likely 
they swept Eden away.’ 

‘ That must have been because God was displeased 
with us ; or was it because He thought we should al- 
ways be trying to find the way in ? ’ 

I think he answered that God himself had found the 
way back for us into that garden, but I understood 
something of its being in heaven, and of God’s great 
love for us. 

‘ Why did He love us ? ’ I asked with infantine scorn. 
‘ I did not love Adam and Eve — they had been very 
unkind.’ 

He said that if I would try to understand he would 
tell me another story, and mentioning the familiar 
name to which I had hitherto attached little or nc» 
meaning, he began and told me the old story, the happy 
story, the good news of the glorious Child, and how 
angels came and sang to the shepherds as they watched 
their flocks by night. He told this with a tender re- 
collection of what a little child he was speaking to ; he 
must have done, for I understood some of his meaning 
and remember it yet. 

When men wei e turned out of Eden they got worst 
and worse, and they could make themselves any 

better, but the great Son of who sat with Him on 
the throne promised that He would come down to this 
world to die for them, that God might forgive them 
and take them to heaven itself, which was a better 
place than Eden. 

I listened with eager wonder, but, strange to say, 
there was one thing that I heard with distrust — Christ 
was born in a stable. I asked my informant if he was 
sure of that. He answered with his serene smile, ‘Yes, 
Christ was so humble that He chose to be born in a 
stable.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS, 


19 


Glimpses of beneficent miracles, the hot country, 
the aloes, the palm-trees, the waters of that pool which 
angels were wont to trouble with their wings ; glimp- 
ses of these things, broken, but still lovely, come to my 
mind as reflected from the precious fragments of thi? 
marvellous story. But I had a fear lest the end should 
be like the end of Eden ; and when he told me any- 
thing more than commonly delightful to listen to, 1 
begged him to repeat it for me again. 

At last he told me the end. Perhaps to tell it in 
such a way was a new thing to him, perhaps this 
impressed his own heart the more ; certain it is that 
when he had told me of the agony in the garden and 
the crown of thorns, his voice, always sweet, became 
touched with unusual emotion. 

But he went on : there was darkness over all the 
land. I understood that the Saviour died. I was 
amazed to hear it, and, overawed by the gravity of the 
narrator, I begged him to stop, and there was a long 
pause. 

Children are so easily moved. I wept; but, babe 
that I was, and ignorant, I said those were wicked 
people, and I hated them. He said, ‘Christ the 
Saviour would forgive both them and us.’ 

‘But was not Christ dead?’ 

‘ He was dead when they took Him down from the 
cross and laid Him in a sepulchre.’ 

I listened, and wondered, and he told me how on 
that sultry morning long ago the women came before 
day-dawn and looked in at the open door of the sepul- 
chre where the body of Jesus had lain. 

At this point in his narrative I think it was that he 
took from his breast-pocket a little book and read from 
it all the remainder of the gospel story, beginning with 
the ever comforting words, ‘Woman, why weepest 
thou ? ’ and ending, ‘ Lo, I am with you alway, even to 
the end of the world.’ So, then, Christ the Redeemer 
lived again, he told me, and was gone up to heaven to 
pray for us, and if we trusted in Him and strove to 
please Him, we should certainly go to Him when we 


20 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


died, and never see that place that I had seen a pic- 
ture of. 

Upon this, being very glad, I lifted up my face to 
kiss Mr. Mompesson. I had been a good deal awed 
and frightened while the issue of the event wa^ doubt- 
ful, and now in my relief and exultation 1 danced 
about the place for joy. Most people, I should think, 
would have checked these manifestations of delight 
with severity, as irreverent and foolish. Mr. Mompes- 
son did not. He sat looking on with his arms folded, 
repeating, when I asked him that what he had told me 
was quite true, ‘ perfectly true ; ’ and when, tired at last, 
I came to him to be taken on his knee, he held me in his 
arms, and said that now I must try to be a good 
child. 

I answered in all simplicity, that now I had heard 
this story I meant to try, and I asked him whether he 
tried. 

Who could hear such a question with equanimity? 
He did not reply at first, but when I pressed him, he 
answered with a sigh — ‘sometimes.’ I remember 
looking in his face with surprise, but I was tired, so I 
laid my head on his shoulder, and we sat silent. What 
he was thinking of I cannot tell. My thoughts, with 
all their ignorance, were such as I could wish to have 
always. I thought of that beneficent Redeemer, and 
how I would try to find out what He wished me to do 
that I might do it. 

Now, as we had been told that we were not to play 
in the Minster any more, we should have found it 
rather a dull place in spite of our love for the old sex- 
ton, if it had not been for a certain little door. You 
opened this little door, and on windy days a kind of 
hollow moaning came down to it, and when you looked 
up you saw nothing but a worn stone stair. Snap and 
I, having once a good opportunity, went up this wind- 
ing stair ; sometimes it was very dark, and then all at 
once as we crept on we came to a narrow looplight. 
Oh so narrow! we could but just push our hands 
through it ; and we looked down and saw the blue-coat 


OFF TEE 8KELLIQ8. 21 

boys playing in their playground, and saw the broad 
flat tops of the cedar-trees in the vicar’s garden. 

At last we came to the bell-chamber, but the omi- 
nous hum there — for it was on the stroke of noon — 
rather frightened us, and we retreated, and mounted 
again, coming out at last in a room which at first 
seemed nearly dark, but which grew lighter and pleas- 
anter when our eyes became accustomed to it, — a 
place that no one wanted, and where nothing was 
kept, rough, dusky, and with strange hollows and 
niches in the walls. The roof had a little hole in it 
here and there, and the birds came through at their 
will. 

We adopted that place, stole up to it fi-equently, and 
brought to it certain possessions — as crumpled books 
full of pictures, dolls, and baskets for keeping young 
birds in. Many a happy hour I spent there, sitting on 
the floor under a great beam that in one part stooped 
low over our heads ; and here Snap told me a great 
many extraordinary things, some true, and some of his 
own invention. We peopled the whole place with 
kings and soldiers, ghosts and living celebrities. In 
one dim recess sat no less a personage than Queen 
Elizabeth. Near it was the tent where Brutus was 
resting before the battle where his evil genius looked 
at him ; and a large doll of mine, in a particularly 
dusky corner, received a daily visit of condolence from 
us as the Empress Josephine when her tyrant had got 
another mate. 

I liked this place very much when the day was 
bright, for then little spots of sunshine would steal in 
and creep cheerily along the floor; but sometimes 
there came a dark cloudy day, and then the whole 
chamber would be filled with a strange duskiness, 
which gave mysterious shape to beams and rafters. 
Then I was often frightened, because Snap, whom 
nothing made afraid, used to fable that ghosts were 
hiding behind them, and would most likely peep out 
soon to look at us. Then indeed I used to tremble, 
and my face being covered with my hands at the first 


22 


OFF THE SKELLTGS 


hint of the ghosts, I would listen while he held irnagin- 
ary conversations with them, always demanding what 
they wanted in a bold voice, as manly as the ciicum- 
stances permitted, and answering in the person ot the 
said ghosts, with a weak whining tone that they were 
come to hear about W allace, or Giant Despair, or the 
battle of Trafalgar, according to the book he might 
have been reading aloud. 

Thereupon he generally ordered them to retire, and 
not come out till evening; and after a time finding 
these fetches of his imagination not unnaturally sub- 
ject to his bidding, I came to regard them with less 
awe, and, in fact, till a certain memorable day, I 
regarded all sorts of ghosts with* a pity which was 
somewhat akin to contempt. 

On this particular day Snap proposed to leave me in 
‘ Hades,’ as he called this place, and go down to the 
sexton’s house for an old book that he wanted to bor- 
row. There were a good many spots of sunshine that 
day, and I had my doll and a bag of crumbs for the 
mice, who would often come out and eat them, even 
in our presence. I do not remember how old I was, 
but I was certainly getting on in life, for I had arrived 
at a point when one desires to be depended on, and 
not wish to be thought a baby — therefore I took care 
to repeat to myself that I was not at all afraid, and I 
sat a long time amusing myself very pleasantly, when 
all on a sudden I heard a creaking on the stairs, and 
then a pause, and then a kind of snort. I pricked up 
my little head, for the sounds were unusual, but pres- 
ently something like regular footsteps was heard, and 
1 of course supposed them to be Snap’s, and was much 
encouraged ; but, willing to guard against any possible 
contingency, I covered my eyes with my hands, be- 
cause in case this should be a ghost, I did not wish to 
have anything to do with it. 

What a loud foot this possible ghost had! I was 
soon sure that it was not Snap who was coming, and I 
thought if it was a ghost it could be no other than the 
ghost of CaBsar ; so I crouched down closer, squeezed 


OFF TEE SKELL1Q8. 


23 


my hands over my eyes, and presently, with a sort of 
wheezing noise, something heavy came in, and started, 
and nearly tumbled down, crying out, 

‘Bless my heart! bless me! bless me!’ 

Something seemed in a great hurry, it tumbled or 
rolled down the stairs with more creaking and more 
wheezing — then a door was shut below — the ghost 
had shut himself in among the great bells. I was so 
glad he was gone. 

Snap soon after came up. He cried to me to make 
haste and run down, for the sexton was very soon 
going home. W e had not time for much talk, but as 
he went down Snap saw that I looked just a little 
alarmed. 

‘ What is the matter?’ he asked. 

‘A ghost came,’ I whispered, ‘while you wen 
away.’ 

‘ Nonsense,’ he answered ; ‘ what did it do ? ’ 

‘ It wheezed,’ 1 replied ; ‘ I think it was a sick ghost. 
It wheezed, and then it rolled down-stairs.’ 

‘ I don’t believe it,’ said Snap, and so dismissed tbs 
subject 


24 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


CHAPTER 111. 

AJid he showed as how he had seen an angel in his house. — Acts xi. II 

O UR nurse had a very easy conscience, a most 
undesirably easy conscience, considering the cir- 
cumstances under which she was placed. She 
suffered us from day to day to go into the Minster, 
though the old sexton, when she came to fetch us 
home, could seldom give any account of where we 
were. We always appeared in the nursery when we 
were hungry, which, thanks to the regularity of our 
appetites, was generally about our dinner time, and 
that seemed to satisfy her. 

The day after I had heard that odd noise of wheez- 
ing on the stairs, I positively refused to go up to 
Hades, and we accordingly remained below. But the 
day after that, as Snap declared that he should go up, 
I crept up after him, and he insisted on peeping into 
the door of the bell-chamber, just to be sure, as he said, 
that nobody was there. We took with us some crumbs 
and crusts of bread which we had collected for our 
tame mice and the young sparrows. 

We did peep into the bell-chamber, and there in a 
hole we saw a nest full of nearly fledged pigeons ; two 
of them fluttered on to the floor, as, forgetful of the 
ghost, we ran in. We took them, and tying them 
loosely into Snap’s handkerchief, stood a few minutes 
on tip-toe peeping through a loop-light and chattering 
together. In one corner of the ‘chamber lay several 
nests with eggs in them. They were half covered 
with a man’s jacket (not a jacket such as the sexton 
wore), and beside them lay a very dirty little song- 
book and a red pocket-handkerchief. These things did 


OFF THE 8KELLIQS. 


25 


not surprise us, they were clearly the possession of 
some mortal, and we feared not mortals; so we ar- 
gued together respecting the ghost which I said I had 
heard on the stairs tramping up, as well as respecting 
other every-day matters. 

Finally, we withdrew and crept up the set of wooden 
steps which led into ‘ Hades ; ’ they were little better 
than a ladder, but we were well accustomed to them, 
and when we had shut the door. Snap said that he haf 
peeped through the crack of the hinges as he came up 
the steps, and that there was somebody in the bell- 
chamber standing straight upright in the corner behind 
its heavy door, which was open. 

I took the easiest solution that offered, and said per- 
haps it was the ghost. ‘ Oh no,’ he said, ‘ it had dirty 
nails, and ghosts, he was sure, never had dirty nails.’ 

Of course I was immediately sure of it too. But 
why did the man stand behind the door ? was it that 
we might not see him? Snap could not tell. We 
untied the handkerchief, made a splendid nest for our 
l^igeons of hay and feathers, for the wasteful sparrows 
always brought up far more of these materials than 
they wanted; then we fed them and our tame mice, 
who no sooner heard our voices than they peeped out 
and twinkled their bead-like eyes at us. And after- 
wards, Snap, standing on the beam which was our cus- 
tomary seat, made these small creatures an harangue 
which was partly mortal, partly fabulous. First, with 
much self-laudation of his kindness in being at the 
pains to teach such inferior creatures, he related to 
them, as he generally did on these occasions, the his- 
tory of the war between the mice and the cranes. 
Never was there such a restless audience ; little squeaks 
were heard now and then all through it, and little 
rushes behind beams, and sudden darts out into the 
open floor, while all the time an unceasing chirp and 
chirrup was kept up in the nests out of reach among 
the tie-beams. Finally, while the mice, who had not 
yet flnished every crumb, made a concluding scampei 
down the beams and popped into their holes, he de 


26 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


livered to them a serious lecture on the vice of greedi* 
ness. ‘ They need not think,’ he observed, ‘ that even 
when he was away they could snatch the crumbs from 
one another unobserved, for there was a person near at 
hand who was not exactly a gentleman, because he had 
dirty nails, but who knew when mice were greedy, and 
despised them. For himself, he was soon going away ; 
but they had better improve their manners, for during 
the afternoon that person might very likely come up 
and look at them.’ 

Very likely indeed, as the sequel proved, — for 1 
was still listening to this harangue with unbounded 
admiration, when the door was cautiously pushed open, 
and through the dim chamber a man came up to us 
who was clad in a fustian jacket and grey worsted 
stockings: he had no shoes. He seemed very careful 
not to make a noise, and when he got close up to Snap, 
who was standing on the beam, he said, ‘ Servant, sir.’ 

‘ How do you do ? ’ said Snap, by way of reply. 

This man looked as if he had not been shaved for 
some time, and his eyes had an eager, hungry glitter. 

‘ What’s your name, hey, sir ? ’ he next asked. 

‘ Tom Graham,’ replied Snap ; ‘ and this is my sister 
— she is Dorothea Graham.’ 

‘Oh,’ was the man’s sole reply, and he stared at us 
very hard, and asked if we came into the Minster roof 
every day. 

‘ Every day, when we can,’ said Snap. ‘ Do you ? ’ 
I did not like that man, and did not wish him to talk 
to me, he made a wheezing noise as he breathed, which 
reminded me of the ghost, so I withdrew to the corner 
where the mice made their holes, and began to watch 
them ; they were very amusing, and I presently forgot 
to listen to Snap and the man as they whispered to- 
gether, and busied myself with them, and afterwards 
with my old doll in the recess. In a little while the 
man glided away very quietly, and Snap said he was 
gone back to the bell-chamber, — and this chani her, 
moreover, was a place very seldom entered, for ^he 
bells were rung from below. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


27 


Snap then told me with some exultation that this 
man had lived for several days in the Minster, or 
crouching on the roof, for he was hiding from his ene- 
mies ! Extraordinary story this, but it did not surprise 
us at all. Snap had often told me about people who 
were obliged to fly from their enemies, and the sexton 
himself had a long story about some old Saxon king 
who was reputed to have concealed himself in the 
crypt for two months while the victorious Danes were 
scouring the country. 

Of course we were not to tell the beadle or the sex- 
ton, — indeed he had impressed that very strongly on 
Snap’s mind, and said he should be very angry if he 
did, and Snap had promised most earnestly not to do 
so. This man had no sword, to be sure, and no ar- 
mor nor weapon of any kind. The circumstance was 
disappointing to us, and a surprise, because the war- 
riors in Shakespeare, both those who fought and those 
who fled, always had swords or rapiers, or something 
to flght with. Snap had asked the man what he had 
done with his sword, but he said he had only a knife, 
and that ‘ would serve his turn if any one came near 
him ; ’ we hoped that no one would, and took his part 
against his enemies, without particularly considering 
who they might be. I resolved also that the next day, 
when we came into the Minster, I would bring him a 
posy of daisies and buttercups. 

We went home, and, as may easily be believed, no 
one asked us wheth^er we had seen a man in the Min- 
ster, and whereabouts he hid himself. Every time nurse 
spoke to us that was what I, however, expected her to 
say ; but as the evening wore on I nearly forgot the 
man, till just before bed time, when I stole into the 
green bed-room, and looked at the Minster tower to 
see whether he was peeping out at any of the loop- 
lights. The next day was wet, but the day after that 
being hot and fine, our nurse took out dear little Amy’s 
best pelisse, dressed the pretty little smiling creature, 
and putting on our common suits led us all into the 
Minster, and saying that she wanted to take Amy 


28 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


to her cousin’s farm in the country, left us with her 
father. 

Snap almost immediately began to climb the tower, 
on his way to the bell-chamber. He said he had prom- 
ised the man that he would go and see him again, and 
besides he wanted to ask him what ‘ his enemies ’ would 
do to him if they got him. So up we both climbed, 
till we got to the dim part of the stairs, where the 
massive door of the chamber might be seen. I liked 
to hear that door opened, it used to creak with a kind 
of complaining noise ; and besides, it was pricked full 
of minute round holes which Snap said had little worms 
in them. 

When we reached the said door. Snap knocked with 
his open hand, and then whispered through the great 
key-hole, ‘ Man, man, let me in, I am not one of your 
enemies.’ Upon this the door was softly opened, and 
^reat, fierce, unwashed and unshaven face looked out. 
We were told to walk in, and the man asked in a deep 
voice, which rather frightened us, whether either of us 
had told any one where he was. We both declared 
that we had not^ adding that we knew it would be very 
wicked to tell! Upon this he seemed satisfied, and 
Snap venturing respectfully to ask him how he was, he 
replied that he was ‘fairly clemmed,’ by which he 
meant that he was suffering from hunger. His appear- 
ance was anything but heroic, yet we both regarded 
him with awe and deference, which was not diminished 
even when the fellow said, ‘ If I know’d of a boy that 
could be trusted. I’d send him to buy me a loaf of 
bread.’ Snap on this rose proudly up; there was a 
baker’s shop on the south side of the Minster, and 
scarcely a stone’s throw from the porch. He received 
money and instructions to buy a hall-quartern loaf 
there, and if he was asked any questions, to say that it 
was for his little sister to feed her young birds with, or 
he might say that he was hungry. 

‘ But that would be a story,’ said Snap ; ‘ and, besides. 
Missy and I have had our dinner ; we are not hungry, 
thank you.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


29 


I ctc' not remember how this difficulty was got over^ 
but Snap certainly went to fetch the loaf, and I, mean- 
while, was left with this man, who turned pale and fre- 
quently shivered. Most likely he felt the extreme 
danger of sending a child like my brother on such an 
errand, but hunger being too strong for him, he could 
not resist the opportunity. 

At last Snap was heard coming up again, the door 
was softly opened, and he appeared with triumph in his 
eyes, and a great loaf in his anus. ‘ They never asked 
me what I was going to do with it,’ he observed ; ‘ most 
likely they thought I had come to fetch it for our cook, 
and nobody saw me bring it into the Minster, for Wil- 
son was standing with his back to me, rubbing the pul- 
pit rails.’ Our man took the loaf with eager eyes, and 
when he told us that for the last five days he had lived 
on birds’ eggs only, we were not so gi’eatly surprised, 
as we otherwise might have been, at the way in which 
be tore it to pieces and devoured it. Unless I am very 
much mistaken, we visited this man in his airy lodging 
five or six times, and Snap was honored almost every 
day by receiving his commissions. Once he was ill, and 
I was left with him while my little brother was sent 
down with a bottle, and desired to fill it at the tap in 
the vestry. It was a bottle that we had frequently 
seen on the vestry table, but we never doubted our 
friend’s perfect right to the use of it. Snap, on this 
occasion, was detained by a cause no less important 
than the meeting of Mr. Mompesson himself in the 
Minster, and he, telling him that there was going to be 
a wedding, desired him not to play with that bottle, 
but put it in its place. After which, if he was a good 
boy, he might stay in the choir and see this wedding. 
So Snap was obliged to remain and look on, though he 
knew that ‘ our man,’ as we called the villain up in the 
tower, would be much alarmed at his long stay. 

After a long time he was able to fill the bottle and 
come up. Meanwhile I, left in charge of the invalid, 
endeavored to amuse him by telling him stories. He 
was stretched on the rough floor, and his iips were 


80 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


parched with ferer and excitement. He must have felt 
the extreme risk he ran from our having discovered his 
retreat, yet it behoved him to speak us fair and be 
kind to us, for on our voluntary visits he almost en- 
tirely depended for his scanty meals. 

I suppose that villain, as he undoubtedly was. 
must have been particularly fond of children, for I can 
remember that, so far from being afraid to be left with 
him, I actually liked him, and was never tired of hear- 
ing him talk about his little lass who was just mj 
height, and would be ‘five years old, come Michael- 
mas ; ’ her name was Sally ; and being frequently ques- 
tioned by me, he told the color of her hair and eyes, 
and described her best frock, a print one, ‘ with some- 
thing of a pink pattern on it,’ and her bonnet with a 
blue ribbon. 

So, as I said, I liked this man. I liked to play with 
the blue glass buttons of his velveteen waistcoat, and 
to wind up his silver watch ; also to hear him talk of 
his ‘missis,’ meaning his wife, and how she whip{)ed 
Sally when she was a naughty girl ; how Sally ran to 
meet him sometimes when he came home from work, 
and rode home on his shoulder. 

Perhaps the reflection that he could never hope to 
see this wife and this child again made him think of 
them with regret; perhaps the tender age of the chil- 
dren who ministered to him made him willing to choose 
for them from his guilty mind some of its few innocent 
remembrances. I cannot tell how this may have been, 
but I remember how sorry 1 was that day for him, 
while Snap remained so long below. I could not bear 
to see him looking so miserable ; and as I sat upon his 
fustian jacket, I told him as many fairy tales as 1 could 
think of. 

At length Snap came up with the bottle, and the 
poor prisoner drank the draught which had been got at 
so much risk to himself with unutterable contentment. 

Our friend Wilson was busy in the Minster, a long 
way from the vestry, and taking advantage of this fact, 
we both went down and brought up the great glass 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


31 


decanter. How our little hearts beat during this ad- 
venture ! how I watched Wilson from behind a pillar 
while Snap waited in the vestry till I should sign to 
him to come out! We wished the man would let us 
tell Wilson that he was there. We assured him that 
Wilson was a very kind man, and would be good to 
him. It was of no use, however, and we were obliged 
to be content with waiting on him ourselves. 

The least noise would make him tremble ; and seeing 
this, I that day asked him how long he thought it 
would be before his enemies found him ; but he pulled 
down his heavy black brows, and looked at me with 
such displeasure that I crept behind Snap to hide my- 
self. 

I do not remember how long we ministered to this 
man, — perhaps for a fortnight. Sometimes we acted 
scenes or told stories to amuse him. He was extremely 
restless, and would pace the dim chamber for hours to- 
gether ; but a kind of stealthy pleasure would appear 
in his face when we appeared and had answered the 
always repeated question as to whether we had told 
any one. He often said our presence was a great relief 
to him ; and once told Snap that he felt very bad o’ 
nights, and generally came down and slept on the 
vestry table. 

At last one day when we came to see our man, we 
found the door of the bf^ll-chamber wide open. He 
was gone, and not a trace remained of him. We were 
very glad that he had escaped from his enemies, and we 
often talked of him between ourselves, but we never 
told any one of his having been concealed in the Min- 
ster, — no, not even our beloved Mr. Mompesson ; and 
on looking back I feel quite convinced that we had no 
notion we were doing wrong in this concealment. In 
fact, I believe we supposed that we were performing a 
sacred duty. Who the man was I never discovered 
with any certainty ; but years after, in reading a recent 
history of my native shire, I found an account of the 
eBca])e of a certain prisoner from the county gaol. 

This man, Sam Potter by name, was described as a 


82 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


convicted sheep-stealer and supposed murderer, and hi» 
escape was made in the daytime, while a market was 
being held below. A rush of persons was made to re- 
ceive and detain him as he descended by a rope; but 
among them must have been several accomplices, for 
the cry was to pass him to the front, and the crowd 
changed about, and being impatient, pushed and 
searched, but to no purpose. Some prison clothes were 
found on the ground, and there was a fight between two 
men, who conveniently quarrelled just at that moment, 
but the felon was not to be seen, and he had never been 
discovered since. This gaol, I found, was forty miles 
from our Minster ; but the date given as that of Sara 
Potter’s escape was just a fortnight earlier than that on 
which we found the strange man in the tower. 

I therefore incline to think, though I have nothing 
else to go by, that Sam Potter and ‘ our man ’ were one 
and the same person, that he overheard Snap telling 
me how he had seen a man behind the door, and think- 
ing his only chance lay in speaking us fair, and getting 
us to promise not to tell, he had come out to propitiate 
us, and had tried the desperate experiment of letting 
children be his purveyors. 

Our intimacy with Mr. Mompesson soon made us 
cease to search for ‘ our man,’ though we did not forget 
him, and in case he should return we would often carry 
up bits of bread and other provisions, and hide them in 
the crevices that he had been accustomed to make his 
larder. 

Every day we went to see ‘ Mompey ’ in his seven- 
sided parlor, and sometimes we presided at his frugal 
dinner, which took place just after our early tea. Snap 
was promoted to cut up his lettuces, I peppered his 
peas, and occasionally partook of the plums from his 
pudding. His landlady waited. I was privileged to 
have a small silver fork, and help myself from his plate. 
My brother was not allowed to take any such liberty, 
but he was not jealous, indeed he regarded me as a 
very young child, and took it amiss that I could not 
help lisping. We might have consumed more of Mom* 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


88 


pey’s pluras, but that about this time we had the mea- 
sles, and when we were getting better used to be very 
cross, and cry and pettishly quarrel with one another. 
One day, as I well remember, Mr. Mompesson came to 
see us in our nursery. Nurse, as usual, was away, gone 
out for a walk with Amy. The housemaid brought 
up Mompey, by his own desire, and he helped us to 
make a Roman fortification with our wooden ‘bricks.* 
On this occasion, as we all three sat on the floor, as 
happy as possible, a queer ringing was heard at the 
front bell, but nothing was farther from our thoughts 
than that we should be disturbed, and we were cheer- 
fully going on with our play, when there was a noise on 
the back stairs of people running up, so fast that we 
thought the house must be on fire ; but we liad not time 
to tell each other our thoughts before the door was 
burst open and in rushed our papa and mamma, the 
former laughing, and the latter crying, for joy at seeing 
us again. 

They each seized a child, and I have not a more dis- 
tinct recollection of anything which took place in my 
childhood than of seeing Mompey a minute after sitting 
on the floor without his coat, blushing, among the heaps 
of wooden bricks, while the laughing, crying, exclaim- 
ing, and kissing were going on around him. 

At last he rose and fetched mamma a chair. It was 
the rocking chair, and as he handed it to her she ob- 
served his presence and appearance with very great 
surprise — he was blushing up to the eyes, and had not 
yet put his coat on. 

‘ Are you Mrs. Green’s servant ? ’ she asked gravely 
and sweetly, for she actually thought he was the foot- 
man of an old aunt of ours. 

He laughed softly, and with a good deal of stammer- 
ing and blushing, contrived to explain that he was one 
of the curates, but before he had done my father began 
to shake hands with him, and presently helped him on 
with his coat. Coats must have been made tighter 
then, I think, than they are now, for I remember that 
it was no slight efiTort to get Mompey into his. 

2 * o 


34 


OFF TEE 8KELLI08. 


Now that papa and mamma were come home we 
were very happy. Our parents, observing some charm- 
ing proofs of our ignorance, applauded nurse ; finding 
us also fat and well, they spoke of her openly as a 
treasure, gave her a silk gown and a shawl with pine- 
cones all over it. We of course said nothing of the 
hours during which she had left us to wander about by 
ourselves ; children seldom complain of neglect or even 
of unkindness, and we were unconscious of either. 

Some time after this I had a great disappointment, 
the smart of which I sometimes feel to this day. We 
had made acquaintance with Wilson’s grandson, a boy 
about twelve years old, and one day when we were up 
in the tower (for we three often went there when our 
mother was out, and nurse wanted to get rid of us) we 
talked to tliis boy about several things that Mr. Mom- 
pesson had told us of, specially, as I remember, about 
angels. 

‘ Oh, Titus,’ I said to this boy, ‘ I wish I could see an 
angel.’ 

‘And why shouldn’t you?’ he replied, ‘I could show 
you one very easy — my father’s got one in his shop.’ 

‘ An angel ! ’ I exclaimed, ‘ has he got a real angel — 
a live angel ? ’ 

I was little more than five years old — let that fact 
be an excuse for the absurdity of the question. 

Snap was absorbed in his book and took no notice, 
‘ Is it alive ? ’ I repeated. 

‘ I don’t know what you mean,’ he replied ; ‘ it ain’t 
alive, nor it ain’t dead — but it is an angel, and has 
long wings and a crown on its head.’ 

‘ And how did he catch it ? ’ I exclaimed, in the plen- 
itude of my infantine simplicity. 

‘ He didn’t catch it,’ replied Titus, ‘ he borrowed it of 
another man.’ 

I shall never forget the awe, the ecstasy which 
thrilled my heart on hearing this. ‘ Do you think,’ 1 
inquired, ‘ that he vould let me see it ? ’ 

Titus replied ^at he would with ‘the greatest of 
pleasure.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


35 


lie was a very stupid boy, and when I inquired 
whether it would be wicked in me to go and see it he 
stared vacantly, and said I had better come at once, 
for very soon it would be his dinner-time. I would 
rather have waited, but then I thought perhaps that 
might be my only opportunity, as no doubt the angel 
would shortly go home again to heaven ; so I followed, 
longing and yet trembling, and Titus took me out of doors 
and into a yard where there was a great shed. It was 
a large place full of chips and shavings, and at the end 
farthest from the entrance there was a table covered 
with a large white cloth which had settled to the shape 
of a figure lying beneath it, and gave evident indica- 
tions of limbs and features. 

‘ There,’ said Titus, ‘ that’s the angel, father keeps it 
covered because it’s such a handsome one.’ 

My heart beat high, but when I marked the bier-like 
appearance of the table, and that there was a recum- 
bent figure beneath the drapery, I snatched away my 
hand, and shrieking out, ‘ Oh, it is dead, the angel is 
dead,’ fell down on the floor, and lost recollection for 
a moment from excessive fright. Presently I saw that 
Titus was standing by me, staring in alarm, and 1 sat 
up, shaking, and feeling very cold. 

‘ I told you, Miss, that it wasn’t alive nor it wasn’t 
dead,’ he observed ; ‘how should it be ? Don’t be 
afraid, come and look at it.’ 

I felt sick, and shut my eyes while he led me to it, 
and put back the drapery; then I ventured to open 
them, and, oh, unutterable disappointment, it was a 
wooden angel, and there were veins of oak upon her 
wings. 

‘Now,’ said Titus, ‘what were you afraid on?’ 

‘ This is not the sort of angel 1 meant,’ I answered ; 
and added, ‘ I meant an angel that had been in heaven,’ 

Titus, stupid as he was, looked at me with astonish- 
ment on hearing this, and answered with reverential 
awe, ‘ Miss, you must not talk in that fashion. That 
sort of angel doesn’t fly down here.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ I inquired. 


36 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘ Why, of course I am,’ he answered, sincerely 
enough, though strangely. ‘ If they came in snowy 
weather, they would get their wings froze.’ 

‘ I know they do come,’ I replied ; ‘ God sends them 
with messages, Mr. Mompesson told me He did.’ 

Titus, as I remember, did not clear up this mystery 
for me, but he answered, ‘ This is an imitation angel. 
Father is making two for the new organ. The man 
that he borrowed it of made it.’ 

‘ Then had he seen an angel ? ’ 

‘ No, sure.’ 

‘ How did he know, then, what angels were like ?’ 

That Titus could not tell. 

‘ Where did that man live ? ’ 

‘ He lived at Norwich.’ 

This reply entirely satisfied me. Norwich I knew 
was a great way off. It might be a good deal nearer 
to heaven than was the place where I lived. I cannot 
say that I distinctly thought it was, but it was remote 
and utterly unknown. All things therefore were pos- 
sible concerning it. I looked down on the angel’s 
wings as it lay on the long low table, and I believed 
that it was rightly carved, and that they knew all about 
angels at Norwich. 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


8T 


CHAPTER IV. 

Up and down as dull as grammar, 

On an eve of holiday. — M rs. Browning. 

< T T E says “It’s not of the slightest use to wake 
X^l them, my dear, they’ll neither understand the 
matter nor feel it.” So with that he kissed 
them — asleep, you know, in those two beds — and off 
he went.’ 

These words were spoken by ray nurse one evening 
as she sat at her tea with a friend whom she had in- 
vited to spend the evening with her. 

‘ And took your mistress and the little boy with him^ 
didn’t he ? ’ said the friend. 

‘Yes, and they are coming back to-morrow.’ 

‘ And how long is Mr. Graham to be away ? ’ 

‘ Nobody knows — it’s Sydney that he’s gone to — 
they went to see him sail.’ 

‘ And you mean to go with her to the out-of-the-way 
place you told me of ? ’ 

‘Yes, but how Missis can put her head into such a 
hole I can’t think. I’d as lief stop here and never see 
a soul as go there, where they’ll live just as if they 
weren’t gentlefolks.’ 

‘Maybe you’ll find it better than you expect,’ ob- 
served the friend. 

‘ I don’t see how that can be,’ replied nurse ; ‘ Missis 
has explained it all to me. “ I should wish, nurse,” says 
she, “ that there should be no misunderstanding be- 
tween us. You wish to remain in my service? ” “ If 
you please, ma’am,” says I. Says she again, “ Do you 
know what sort of a house I am going to?” “No, 
ma’am,” says I, “ but I don’t need to know, for I shall 
not have to clean it.” ’ 


88 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


‘ You were right there,’ said the friend, ‘ and of 
course she won’t expect any cleaning of you.’ 

Nurse proceeded — ‘“I suppose,” says Missis, “ you 
know that your master has had losses ; ” and then on 
she went, and told me that he was obliged to leave her 
in England, that she had a small property of her own, 
which was two acres of land and a windmill. These 
were almost in the midst of a common, and the mill 
was let to a very respectable couple ; on the land 
she said were two cottages, such as poor folks live in. 
“You need make no mistake,” says she, ‘‘ about them ; 
they have brick floors, and the door opens into the 
front kitchen of each. One. of those front kitchens I 
mean to have for my parlor, the other will be the nurs- 
ery. There are two little back kitchens behind, where 
the cooking and all that must be done, and there are 
four little attics above where we must sleep. Those 
cottages,” she says, “ will not let because they are in 
such a lonesome place, therefore the best thing I can 
do is to live in them, and the garden ground will pro- 
vide fruit and vegetables.” ’ 

‘ I would not have gone with her,’ said the friend. 

‘ She is a very nice lady to live with,’ urged our nurse. 

‘ But she is a very out-of-the-way person,’ continued 
the friend. 

‘ Oh, I don’t care for that,’ said nurse, ‘ m long as 
she never interferes with me — besides, she allows a 
great deal of liberty, and never troubles herself to look 
after things, but just lies on the sofa reading her books, 
and writing — no wonder she has the headache.’ 

‘ But they do say she gets money by writing,’ re- 
marked the friend. 

My nurse shook her head. 

‘Nobody would buy such ridiculous things,’ she re- 
plied, ‘as Missis covers her paper with. I’ve often 
seen them — they are rounds and squares and triangles, 
all going in and out of one another — John, that was 
our footman before they lost their property, said they 
were Mathewmatics.’ 

I cannot'say that I distinctly regretted this intended 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


89 


absence of my father. A week is a long time to a little 
child, and ten miles is a great distance — a much longer 
time and a much greater distance I did not picture 
clearly to myself ; besides, the absence of m^, brother 
induced me to play with my little sister Amy, and in 
that natural and healthy companionship I found conso- 
lation for the want both of parents and expeditions to 
the Minster. 

In the course of time my mother and Snap came 
Home. Very soon there was a great deal of noise and 
confusion in the house : furniture was sold, and other 
furniture packed up. Then one day, as I was looking 
out of the window, I saw a fly standing at the door, 
and my mother coming up to me, kissed me, and told 
me to look at my old nursery, and then at the Minster, 
for most likely I should never see them any more. 

Mr. Mompesson was present. I asked if I should 
never see him anymore. We saw he could not tell. 
This inclined me to cry, but Snap laughing at me and 
saying that it would be very jolly to live in the coun- 
try, I was cheered ; and Mompey having kissed me 
lovingly, we got into the fly, and began a journey 
which lasted all day. 

It was late in April. The flelds were full of butter- 
cups, and the hawthorn was in bud. Snap, as I re- 
member, was in high spirits, but my mother sometimes 
shed tears. She was generally a silent person, but that 
day she made many eflbrts to talk, and towards even- 
ing her spirits rose, and we beheld the place that nurse 
had called ‘ a hole.’ 

A more lovely and desirable place we thought it. 
Two cottages built together, and thatched, standing on 
a great green common, which in front stretched away 
for miles, and was studded with little hillocks covered 
with broom. This was what met our eyes, and we 
were delighted. The little hillocks were golden with 
broom blossom, and here and there green heather, 
stunted hawthorn trees, and patches of wild flowers. 

At the back was an orchard and a vegetable garden, 
also the mill with the miller’s cottage, and the miller’s 


40 


OFF TUB SKELLIOS. 


large duck-pond and cow-shed, and beyond these was 
the common again ; not a single object to be seen on 
its green expanse, and no variety of color but what was 
supplied by the winding sandy road that crossed it in 
the direction of the nearest town. Inside the cottages 
did not communicate. In the one on the left was the 
little parlor ; it had a round table in it, mamma’s sofa 
and chairs, and a good-sized set of book shelves. It had 
also a piece of old turkey carpet on the floor. In the 
little room over it, mamma slept with Amy ; in the 
attic at the back stood Snap’s bed, and I had the cor- 
responding attic in the other house. Though we had 
come from a handsome and well-appointed house, I 
do not think that these arrangements struck us as at 
all shabby or uncomfortable, and in some respects we 
were far happier than before, for we perceived that we 
should now enjoy the sweets of liberty. A young ser- 
vant had been hired to help nurse, and these between 
them conducted the household with little or no inter- 
ference from my mother. But we did not now take 
regular walks as heretofore ; we might wander where 
we liked in perfect safety, nurse could not spare the 
time to go with us, nor was there any need for surveil- 
lance. Excepting on market day, not a cart jogged 
and not a farmer plodded along the sandy road, but on 
that day the miller’s wife, Mrs. Sampson, put on her 
best print gown, and came out to chat with stray pas- 
sers by; our nurse and her assistant also wore their 
best ribbons then, and gossiped over the low garden 
hedge, for from Monday morning early to Friday even- 
ing late they never saw a soul, and if Saturday hap- 
pened to be a wet day, sore were their lamentations. 
My mother used to lie on her sofa and read, or sit at 
her desk writing almost all day, but she superintended 
our lessons for a short time in the morning, and some- 
times, as a rare pleasure for us, she would take a ram- 
ble with us on the common. We had now reached an 
age when my mother seemed to think it a needless and 
useless attempt to keep us in ignorance any longer, and 
she generally answered our questions fully and as clearly 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


41 


as she could. I say our questions, not that an} were 
originated by me, but that I participated, as far as I 
could understand them, in all Snap’s speculations, 
doubts, and wonders. We however led a much more 
healthy life than had hitherto been the case. We 
dined at twelve, and after that we might ramble out 
till hunger brought us home to our evening meal ; thus 
from one o’clock till seven we often ran about or sat 
playing among the purple and gold flowers, the grey 
lichens, and the white camomiles. For some time after 
we reached that pleasant home, we were exceedingly 
happy, though we had our difficulties and perplexities, 
for after awhile we became engaged in the somewhat 
arduous task of constructing an entirely new language, 
grammar, spelling, and all. It was of course my 
brother’s idea to make this language, and when I had 
been taken into partnership I helped as well as I could. 

The verbs of our language were to be all regular, 
and, to save trouble. Snap decreed that there should be 
only two conjugations. 

The great present con lenience of the language was 
to be the impossibility of its being understood by 
others when we spoke it, but our humble ambition was 
that at some future day it would, or at least might, 
become the universal language of mankind. Indeed, 
after we had spent many months in contriving it, we 
thought it would be a shame if it did not — but as we 
had often been told of the difficulty experienced by 
foreigners in pronouncing the ‘th’ — we decided on 
omitting this sound, to make them more willing to 
learn it. We agreed very happily about the language 
itself, but were always wi’angling about the spelling. 
The misery caused by the sounds of the vowels never 
shall I forget ; we had intended to have only five, but 
were at last obliged to increase these sounds to eleven. 

Some of Snap’s original poems and my first Journal 
are written in this language ; and we were then deep 
in the labor of its construction when our mother dis- 
covered the fact, and was not at all elated, but, on the 
contrary, exceedingly annoyed, though we took great 
pains to explain its merits to her. 


42 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


PerhapH it was to prevent the activity of onr mindj 
from being entirely wasted in wrong directions, that 
about this time she engaged a tutor for us, being, as 
she explained to Snap, unable to give her time to his 
education, as she had so much writing to do. 

She took great pains to impress upon us that we 
were to be very obedient and obliging to our new tutor, 
and very attentive to his lessons. He was to sleep at 
the miller’s house, and our little nursery was to be fur- 
bished up as a school-room. 

In due time the tutor made his appearance. He 
came in with sufficient assurance: he heard us read — 
we lisped horribly ; he saw us write — our writing was 
dreadful. He seemed a good youth enough. That he 
was very young was evident ; we had been told that he 
had just left King’s College, London. So we treated 
him with great deference, and whatsoever he did we 
admired. Thus when he whistled while mending our 
pens, and when he cut his initials on the wooden desk, 
we thought these acts proofs of superiority. He, how- 
ever, did not seem as well pleased with us, for he had 
encouraged us to talk that he might discover what we 
knew, and he shortly began to look hot, uncomfortable, 
and perplexed. 

Finally he remarked that it was time to ‘ shut up 
shop,’ asked if there were any rabbits on the common, 
and affably decreed that we might come out with him 
and show him about. 

Off we all set, first to the mill for a dog, then to thf> 
Heath, when finding our new friend gracious and friend- 
ly, we shortly began to chatter and explain various 
things to him and argue with each other. 

At last we sat down. Our tutor sunk into silence, 
whistled softly, and stared from one of us to the other. 
Snap, in the joy of his heart, was describing our new 
language, and oh ! audacious act, was actually asking 
him whether he would like to learn it. 

Hot a word did he say, but a sort of alaim began to 
show itself in his face ; and at length, at the end of 
a sharp argument between us, he started up and ex* 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


4b 


claimed, ‘ I say ! there’s something wrong here, — a child 
of six, and talk about a strong preterite ! good gra- 
cious ! ’ 

‘ So I tell her,’ said Snap ; ‘ she ought to know better 
than to expect all our verbs to have strong preterites.’ 

‘ Come home, young ones,’ said our tutor. 

We rose, and he set off at a steady pace ; we sneaked 
behind, aware that something was wrong. We won- 
dered why he went so fast, for he was evidently tired, 
and often wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. 

At the cottage door he met my mother. 

‘ I hope you have had a pleasant walk,’ she said. 

‘ Oh yes, thank you — at least — not exactly. It’s — 
it’s not exactly what I expected.’ 

‘You can go into the orchard, children, and play 
there,’ said my mother, and she and our new tutor went 
in and had a long conversation together. 

When we next met him, which was after tea, he ap- 
peared very ill at his ease, and Snap, who since our 
walk had become quite at home with him, asked him 
a great many questions, which related chiefly, as I re- 
member, to ghosts, spirits, the magnetic poles, and 
other every-day matters. Finally observing his dis- 
comfort, we proposed to do some Shakespeare for him, 
and he sat staring at us under this infliction till nurse 
called us away to bed. 

The next morning at breakfast our mother gave us a 
lecture respecting our general behavior and the man- 
ner in which we talked. We had very much surprised 
our new tutor, she said, and we were not to act scenes 
before him any more, or he would certainly be dis- 
pleased. 

In the midst of the meal, Mr. Sampson, the miller, 
ij^peared at the open door looking flushed and excited. 

‘New Tooter’s off, ma’am,’ said he; ‘I said he 
wouldn’t stop.’ 

‘ Off ! ’ repeated my mother. 

‘ Yes, ma’am, gone — run away,’ replied the miller. 

‘ Extraordinary 1 run away, Mr. Sampson ! what can 
you mean ? ’ 


44 


OFF TEE SKELL108. 


‘Tea, ma’am. I said to my wife last night, “That 
young chap won’t stay. I know it by the look of 
him.” And sure enough this morning, just after I went 
to the mill, he dropped himself and his bag out o' 
window and off he ran. When I came in just now, 
my wife said, “He’s off, John, the Tooter has run 
away ” ’ 

‘ Have you any reason to think he was not satisfied 
with his accommodation ? ’ asked my mother. 

The miller shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, but we 
heard him muttering to himself last night. “I can 
stand a good deal,” said the Tooter, “ but I can’t stand 

a strong ,” we could not hear the last word, though 

he said it over several times.’ 

‘Strong butter?’ suggested nurse, who had brought 
in some cress, and was listening to the recital with in- 
terest. 

‘No, it wasn’t butter, I know,’ replied the honest 
miller. 

‘ And it couldn’t well be beer,’ said nurse, ‘ for I’m 
sure our beer is as^ weak as water.’ 

Here nurse and Mr. Sampson retired, and my mother 
seemed to be lost in thought. 

Half an hour after, when nurse came in again to 
clear away the breakfast things, my mother said, ‘ It is 
very strange that this young man should have disap- 
peared in such a hurry.’ 

Nurse said nothing, but she looked wise. 

‘What do you consider the reason to have been?’ 
said my mother, point blank. 

‘ Why, really, ma’am, the children do say such strange 
things, and they look so queer, bless ’em, and their 
play-actings are so awful-like, that I do assure you I 
should often be uneasy in my mind with them my- 
self if I had not been used to them so long.’ 

‘You cannot believe that this young man was afraid 
of them ? ’ said my mother. 

‘ Perhaps he thought it would save trouble to run off 
and have done with it,’ said nurse, glancing aside from 
the question. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


45 


* I really do not know what is to be done,* remarked 
my mother. 

‘ W ell, ma’am,’ answered nurse, coming to the rescue 
with some practical suggestions, ‘the children might 
have their hair cut ; and perhaps you could send to the 
town for some pomatum, for Master Graham’s hair 
sticks out just like tow ; that would make them look 
better. And then they might be particular forbid,’ she 
continued, glancing at us with a severe regard of con^ 
trol^ — ‘particular forbid to talk their gibberish lan- 
guage, or act their Hamlets and their other spirits, or 
ask the next gentleman any outlandish questions that 
nobody that ever lived can answer, till he gets used to 
them.’ 

‘Next market-day Mr. Sampson had better be asked 
to bring some pomatum,’ replied my mother. 

‘Thank you, ma’am; and I could cut Missy’s hair 
short myself if I might, it will be quite ruined by the 
time she is gi’own up if she wears it now so long and 
rough.’ 

My mother had already taken up her book. ‘ Well, 
nurse, just as you like,’ said she. No steps were taken 
on that day, but there was a long consultation between 
nurse and Mrs. Sampson ; and Avhen, one week after, 
mamma announced that she had engaged another 
tutor, our hair was all cropped short under their joint 
superintendence in Mrs. Sampson’s kitchen. A quan- 
tity of pomatum was next rubbed into it, and if we 
did not then look like other children, as they flattered 
themselves, we certainly looked very diflTereiit from 
our former selves. Our mother and nurse did not take 
much trouble to inform us beforehand of what was 
going to happen. We heard one day at breakfast that 
the new tutor was coming at ten o’clock, and nurse 
occupied herself for a long while over my toilet and 
Snap’s, shaking her head over my hands, and lament- 
ing that they were as brown as berries. 

Enter new tutor, introduced by my mother, a tall, 
cheerful young man, followed by two dogs. His coun- 
tenance expressed great amusement, and when mamma 


46 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


had retired, he looked at us both with considerable 
attention, while his dogs lay panting at his feet with 
their tongues out. 

As for me, I was dreadfully abashed, and felt myself 
to be a kind of impostor, who must carefully conceal 
what I was, or the new tutor might run away. 

‘ Come here,’ said the new tutor to Snap, ‘ and let 
the little fellow come too. Oh, she’s a girl, I remem- 
ber. Well, come here both of you, and let me see 
what you are like. You, number one, I suppose, are at 
the head of this class?’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ said Snap. 

‘ What’s your name, youngster ? ’ 

‘ Tom Graham, sir.’ 

‘Now, you just look at me, will you? I hear you 
are a very extraordinary little chap. I am very extra- 
ordinary myself. I shall never give double lessons 
when I am angry.’ 

Encouraged by the gay tone of his voice, I looked 
up, on which he said, ‘ And what can you do, little one, 
hey?’ 

Being for once abashed, I shrank behind Snap, but 
was pulled out by his long arm, and straightway set on 
his knee, while Snap, at his desire, gave an account of 
my acquirements and his own. 

After this the dogs were sent out, our new tutor 
began to examine our books, and speedily won our. love 
by the clear manner in which he explained and illus- 
trated everything. 

In the course of the morning it came out that I did 
not know how to work. ‘ Not know how to work, and 
begin Greek ? ’ he exclaimed. ‘ Where’s the nurse ? 
fetch her in.’ 

In came nurse, curtseying. 

‘Why, Mrs. What’s-your-name,’ said our tutor, ‘I 
understand that your young lady cannot work ! ’ 

Nurse, taken by surprise, stammered out gome excuse. 

‘ It’s a very great neglect,’ proceeded our new tutor, 
in a half bantering tone ; ‘ fetch some of your gussets 
and things, and let her begin directly.’ 


OFF THE SKELL1Q8. 


41 


* Now, sir ? ’ said nurse. 

‘ To be sure ; set her going, and I’ll superintend. 1 
can thread a needle with any man ! ’ 

‘ Sir, she hasn’t got a thimble.’ 

‘It is a decided thing that she must have a Ihim- 
ble.’ 

‘ Oh yes, sir, that it is.’ 

Mr. Smith was discomfited by this information, but 
not for long. Three days after, on a glorious sunny 
afternoon, as Snap and I were playing on the common, 
we saw him strolling towards us with a large parcel 
under his ann. 

‘ Come here, you atom,’ said he to me, ‘ I have some- 
thing to show you.’ So I came and crouched beside 
him, for he had seated himself on the grassy bank, and 
had very shortly unfolded to my eyes one of the sweet- 
est sights that can be seen by a little girl. It was a doll, 
a large, smiling wax doll. Beside it he spread out sev- 
eral pieces of gay print and silk and ribbon. He had 
bought them, he said, at the town ; and, moreover, he 
had bought a thimble. 

To ask mamma’s help would have been of little use, 
and he scorned to ask that of nurse ; but by giving his 
mind to the task, and making his own independent 
observations, he designed, by the help of his compasses, 
several gai-ments for the doll, and these, in the course 
of time, he and I made, thereby giving exceeding satis- 
faction to the servants and the family at the mill, who 
used furtively to watch his proceedings with great 
amusement. 

Mr. Smith stayed with us for some time, and won 
our whole hearts, but he had ceased to be remarkable 
in my opinion, for children soon get accustomed to any- 
thing. One day, however, I was sitting on the floor of 
the mill, playing with a young kitten, when our nurse 
came in, and Mrs. Sampson began to consult her con- 
cerning the starching and getting-up of Mr. Smith’s 
collars, for she washed for him, and it appeared that 
Mr. Smith waa uncommonly particular about the said 
collars. 


48 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


It was then that the miller made this sagacious ob- 
servation : 

‘ Mr. Smith,’ said he, ‘ is a very remarkable young 
gentleman. W as he brought up to tootering ? I know 
better. Does he want the money he gets by it? I 
should say not. Very well, then, I ask you this ques- 
tion, What is he here for?’ 

‘ Ah,’ said nurse, ‘ what is he here for ? ’ 

‘ For if ever there was a dull place,’ observed the 
miller, ‘ this is it.’ 

‘ Some folks,’ remarked Mis. Sampson, calmly, ‘ didn’t 
go to church yesterday morning — ’ 

‘In consequence of the cow being ill,’ interrupted 
the miller. 

‘ Ay, the cow ; it must ha’ been a comfort to her that 
folks were asleep in the mill instead of going to church, 
in particular if folks never went near her all service 
time.’ 

‘ Martha ! ’ said the miller, ‘ don’t be aggravating. 
You’ll never make me believe that if you heard any- 
thing yesterday morning, you could have kept it from 
me all this time.’ 

‘I didn’t hear a word, John,’ said Mrs. Sampson, 
laughing. 

‘Then what did you see, Martha ? ’ 

‘ To hear the man talk ! as if he didn’t know ray 
place was behind the pillar ! ’ 

‘Then nurse saw something, and has been telling 
you,’ said the miller. 

‘There now, how full of curiosity some men ar 
said nurse. ‘ I saw Mr. Smith, to be sure, sitting with 
missis in her pew, and I saw the two children with them.’ 

A good deal of laughing took place here, and I won- 
dered why. The miller looked puzzled. 

‘ He’s not what one would call a white-faced gentle- 
man at any time,’ observed Mrs. Sampson. 

‘No!’ said nurse, and yesterday when the dool 
banged how he did color up ! ’ 

‘ The squire is a deal more regular at church than 
yon are, John ! ’ added Mrs. Sampson. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


49 


So indeed is the whole family,’ said nurse, ‘ but 
thAt is no business of ours. Miss Fanny had on her 
pink muslin yesterday. She was last, and I suppose 
she let the door go, for, as I said, it banged.’ 

‘You don’t say that!'* cried the miller, with a radi- 
ant face. 

‘ Don’t say what ? ’ repeated nurse, who at that 
moment seemed to remember my presence. I was sit- 
ting on the floor nursing a kitten. ‘ All I say is, if the 
door bangs and startles the congregation, it ought to 
have its hinges oiled.’ 

‘Hold your tongue, John,’ cried Mrs. Sampson, 
before the honest miller had said a word ; and I, who 
was angry that Mr. Smith should be thought to have 
delicate nerves, exclaimed, ‘ I don’t believe Mr. Smith 
was a bit frightened about the door. I shall ask him 
if he was.’ 

‘No, Miss, I wouldn’t,’ said Mrs. Sampson, earnestly, 
* because he might not like it. And Sampson is going 
to speak to the sexton about oiling it before next Sun- 
day.’ 

‘Yes, that I am !’ said the miller. 

‘ But I don’t believe he cares about it at all,’ I re- 
peated. 

After this many things were said to impress on me 
the propriety of my not ‘ breathing a word ’ of all this 
to Mr. Smith. But my mother coming by and calling 
me, I ran away fr6m my advisers, and did not think 
about the door till that afternoon, when being out on 
the heath with Mr. Smith, I after the fashion of chil- 
dren, asked him — 

‘ Mr. Smith, you are not afraid of things, are you ? ’ 

Mr. Smith was just then sewing. 

‘ What things ? ’ he inquired. 

Oh, I know you are not afraid of guns, nor of leap- 
ing over gates, but Mrs. Sampson says that you were 
go frightened last Sunday when Miss Fanny banged 
the door, that you colored up.’ 

‘ Mrs. Sampson ! what business is it of hers ? ’ ex- 
claimed Mr. Smith, angrily. 


bO 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


‘ But I said I was sure you were not,’ I continued, 
looking up into his face, and lo, the healthy brown 
cheeks were glowing with a clear red, which suffused 
hiB face and mounted up into his temples. Mr. Smith 
had ‘ colored up ’ again. 

‘ There never was such a plague of a needle,’ said he, 
angrily. ‘ I don’t believe it has any eye at all. There, 
take it, child ! ’ 

So saying, he flung the work over to me, and starting 
up began to walk vehemently up and down. I knew 
that something troubled him, and made him restless, 
and seeing him marching about fretting himself I did 
not dare to say a word, but I told Snap what I had heard, 
and Snap was in an ecstasy, and turned head over 
heels several times, his usual way of testifying approba- 
tion. 

‘Oh, how jolly,’ said Snap; ‘that’s what I always 
wished to see people do. Why, Dolly, don’t you know 
in all the plays and the poetry people are in love ? but 
I have never found any real persons yet who were. 
Mr. Smith and Miss Fanny are in love, I’m sure. Now 
we’ll see what they do.’ 

Poor Mr. Smith! what an agreeable surveillance 
this promised him. But he remained happily unaware 
of the interest he was exciting ; he did not know how, 
if he sighed, which he did very often. Snap whispered 
to me, ‘ That’s all right, he is thinking about Miss 
Fanny.’ Nor how, if he appeared 'to be in low spirits, 
we speculated as to whether his lady love had been 
unkind. 

I have not said anything hitherto concerning the 
church which we attended. It was two miles off, on 
the confines of the common, but until this time I had 
not felt any particular interest in the service, for I did 
not understand our old vicar’s sermons, and our pew 
had high sides so that I could see nothing. When, 
however, our party became larger by the tutor, and 
Amy began to go to church, a fresh pew was awarded 
to my mother, one in a part of the aisle which had been 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


51 


newly seated, and in which we could both see and hear 
perfeci;ly well. 

Now in describing what we did in that pew for 
several Sundays one after the other, let me explain 
that I only chronicle, I do not excuse ; and at the same 
time that I record, I must needs confess that I have 
often since wasted the precious hours of prayer and 
praise at a riper age, and with less temptation. 

Our tutor sat at the door of the pew in full view ol 
us both : his collars were starched, his gloves well-fit- 
ting, the whole man arrayed in that somewhat costly, 
plain, substantial, and wholly becoming manner pecu- 
liar to an English gentleman. We were early — we 
were always early — for we started by his watch, and 
he took care to allow plenty of time for the walk. As 
I sat w’ith my little feet upon the hassock I used to 
catch every opening of the door, and mark whose en- 
trance he looked up to watch, and who of the waiting 
congregation watched him. 

The clergyman and his wife would enter. Mr. 
Smith always mechanically followed with his eyes the 
former to the vestry, the latter to her pew ; then the 
few Sunday-school children would bustle in, their 
teachers behind them, — these he never failed to ob- 
serve with interest ; then the farmers and their wives, 
and the few laborers, would stalk with their hob-nailed 
shoes down the brick floors and the aisles, — all these 
his eyes followed. But then there would be a pause ; 
and invariably the last, as we were the first, the Squire’s 
family would approach. That slow door would swing 
on its hinges, and a steady step would come on, fol- 
lowed by other footsteps, soft, and with the rustling ot 
silks accompanying them, together with a certain gen- 
tle urgency of quickness, as if the owners wished to be 
settled in their pew before the clergyman reached his 
desk. The skirts of those silken dresses would brush 
against the door of our pew, within an inch or two oi 
his arm which leaned upon it, the long curls and tlie 
veils would nearly touch his shoulder. But for their 
fellow worshippers Mr. Smith never raised his eyes, 


52 


OFF THE 8KELL108. 


they remained as if glued to the floor. He rose with 
the rest of the congregation, he knelt, he sat, then the 
heavy lids unlifted, and we used to watch him to see 
how long it would be before he would raise his head 
and look up ; when he did it was always a hurried, 
troubled glance, always to the same place — Miss 
Fanny’s place. But be it known that Miss Fanny 
evinced no symptoms whatever of sufiering under the 
same kind of trouble. She could look anywhere, and 
she did. Sometimes she looked at Mr. Smith, and if 
by a rare chance she caught his eye she remained calm 
and unruffled, though he was changing from pale to 
red with agitated feeling. 

When we left the church after service, a few moments 
would be spent in the porch by my mother and this 
family in mutual inquiries and compliments ; and Mr. 
Smith, glad of the little delay, would linger, often lift- 
ing his hat to the ladies, and address one or other, but 
seldom Miss Fanny; if he did, it was always with de^ 
erence and gravity ; but she would answer with an easy 
smile, and sometimes accost him of her own accord. 

Once she asked him how he liked tutoring. He re- 
plied, ‘ I did not choose it because I liked it.’ 

This speech was not heard by our mother, or Miss 
Fanny’s. Perhaps the careless girl felt that she had 
made a mistake and a blundering speech, for she 
looked confused, and answered hurriedly, ‘Oh, in- 
deed.’ 

It rained that day; and while we waited in the 
porch till the shower was over, Mr. Smith spoke several 
times to Miss Fanny. I did not hear what he said, bm 
I saw that when she answered she wrapped her light 
summer cloak about her, and in doing so jerked out a 
little rose and a piece of mignonette that she haa 
worn in her waistband. They fell on the floor, and I 
saw Mr. Smith look at them. They were close to his 
feet, and were drooping and faded. 

Snap whispered to me, ‘ Pick them up. Missy.’ 

So I did, and nobody took any notice of the move- 
ments of such a little child. When the car came to 


OFF THE SKELLTOa. 


68 


take the Squire’s family away we still stayed for the 
passing off of the shower, and in obedience to another 
mandate from Snap, I crept close to Mr. Smith, and 
held up the flowers for his acceptance. He looked 
down surprised, but he took them ; and after that he 
sat on the stone settle of the porch and placed me on 
his knee ; he also kissed me, a mark of his favor that he 
did not often bestow. Miss Fanny had kissed me at 
parting ; so this was the second salute I received that 
morning, and on the same cheek too. 

Sometimes Mr. Smith would meet the Squire (I pre- 
fer to write of him thus, and not to set down his name). 
He was then sure to be asked to dinner; and we 
learned that he had long been acquainted with the 
family, and had recently stayed, while shooting on a 
Scotch moor, in the same house with the second 
daughter. Sometimes Mr. Smith would be very much 
elated after one of these dinners ; and once, as I well 
remember, he rambled out after his lunch, and quite 
forgot to come in again and give us an afternoon les- 
son, so we sat waiting for him till nearly our tea-time ; 
and at last he came lounging in with his dogs and his 
gun, and seemed surprised to see us, exclaiming with a 
laugh, ‘ I declare I quite forgot that I was playing at 
schoolmaster.’ 

But notwithstanding this occasional forgetfulness, he 
showed a real genius for instructing children ; and, true 
to his initiatory warning, he never set any double les- 
sons by way of punishment, but, on the contrary, cut 
short his instructions altogether when he was displeased, 
and made Snap write copies, an occupation which he 
detested. 

As for me, I had many privileges, — my youth, my 
very small dimensions, my lisping tongue, caused him 
to consider me in the light of a plaything ; and he 
made exactly the same unfair distinction between us 
that Mr. Mompesson had done, frequently taking me 
out with him, and carrying me when I was tired, while 
Snap was left to amuse himself at home. This he did 
not find difficult, for my mother’s books, in four boxes 


64 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


and three large ‘ crates,’ had been put into a thatched 
shed which leant again'*;t the cottage on the left; and 
there through the sun.aier and autumn they remained, 
taking no damage ; and Snap and I used to spend many 
a happy hour in turning them over, picking up queer 
pieces of information, reading strange tales and marvel- 
lous histories. Sir Walter Scott’s romances, Captain 
Scoresby’s works, the JEJncyclopcedia Britannica^ which 
was a very favorite work ; the Faery Queen^ numerous 
bound volumes of the Edinburgh Beview^ Cary’s Dante^ 
the Beligio Medici^ and Bohinson Crusoe^ were our 
chief companions at first, but Snap soon left these to 
me, and got Bacon’s Essays^ and a whole stratum of 
books on geology, which filled his head with all sorts 
of theories that served him to fi’ighten me with, as 
ghosts had now grown stale. 

The hypothesis of the ‘ central fire ’ caused me gi*eat 
alarm, especially as Snap declared that it might be ex- 
pected to break out at any time ; as indeed it frequently 
did from the craters of burning mountains ovei-flowing 
the great caldron at the top and slipping glibly down 
making the green crops and the grass hiss and fizz. An 
alarming picture this, especially when it was added that 
a stream of lava, if of any considerable depth, took 
from three to eleven years to cool. 

Snap never asserted that the lava was likely to break 
out in our immediate neighborhood ; on the contrary, 
he said it was improbable that it would, but still it 
mighty and then what would become of us ! He took 
great delight in imagining what we should do if it should 
break out from the top of a high black hill about three 
miles from us ; and every device I suggested as likely 
to aid us in efecting our escape made him the more 
positive in asserting that nothing was so unlikely as 
our being able to get away. 

One day when I was deep in thought considering 
what I could do if the volcanic fire should break out 
that day or the next, Mr. Smith came by with his dogs 
and his gun. Snap went on reading, but I asked if I 
might come with hin^^ He said I might, and told me 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


55 


that he was going to dig out some young rabbits from 
their burrows, and that I should have them to tame 
and feed in a hutch that he would make for them. 

This delightful genius could not only work with his 
needle, but had made for us a first-rate wheelbarrow ; 
rigged for us two schooners and a brig ; dug for my 
brother a good-sized duck pond, into which he turned 
the waters of a tiny spring, and built, drained, and 
thatched a fine model pig-sty with his own manly 
hands. 

Sometimes when my mother saw him at his carpen- 
ter’s work, she would say, ‘ Really, Mr. Smith, it as- 
tonishes me to find you toiling in this way.’ 

‘It’s the finest thing in the world — nothing like 
work,’ he would reply. ‘ “ Blessed be the man that in- 
vented sleep,” quoth the Irishman but I say, “ Happy 
rest the man that invented sawing.” Next to deer- 
stalking, sawing is the most delightful, back-breaking, 
arm-aching work going.’ 

But to return : Mr. Smith and I set off on our ram- 
ble. The green common was basking in the mild yel- 
low sunshine of a fine autumnal day; every little 
elevation was covered with heather, gorse, and fox- 
glove flowers ; the young larks hidden under the ferns 
were chirping softly, the sky was serene, and all the 
wide-open world seemed drinking the sunshine. 

We wandered on, but found no burrows that Mr. 
Smith thought would answer our purpose. He was 
very silent, and I, being happy enough on the unculti- 
vated hills, did not care for that, but went on singing 
by his side, till a large brown dog ran up a slojDe tow- 
ards us, wading and leaping through the bracken, and 
lumping up against Mr. Smith to be caressed. Some 
of the Squire’s family must be out on the heath, we 
thought, for this dog belonged to them. We were not 
left long in doubt, for turning the edge of the hill, we 
began to go down, and then a few feet below us we 
saw Miss Fanny sitting. Her bonnet was off, her long 
flaxen hair was out of curl, and she was smoothing it 
9ut and twisting it over combs on either side of her face. 


66 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


She looked up when we appeared, and Mr. Smith 
paused a minute ; then with a swift step he came down 
to her, and sat on the bank at her side. Girls wore 
large bonnets then, and Miss Fanny when I came run- 
ning towards her, was just putting on hers. The first 
greetings were over: Miss Fanny began to pat the 
dog’s head, Mr. Smith to pat his back. Then they 
talked, but said nothing of interest, and I, growing 
rather tired of the delay, asked if I might take a run 
with the dog and come back to them. The permission 
being readily given by Mr. Smith, I forthwith ran away, 
and the dog and I chased one another among the heather 
and bracken till we were tired; then I found some 
mushrooms, and filled my bonnet with them by way of 
a basket. After that some blackberries presented them- 
selves, and I feasted on these before I returned. 

The sunshine was very soft and sweet, and the air 
was still, and we were on an elevated place, so that I 
could see far and wide over the peaceftil solitude. 

I came softly back, carrying my bonnet by the strings 
and wading breast-high through the bracken, when on 
a sudden turn I found myself close behind Mr. Smith 
and Miss Fanny. They had changed their place, and 
Miss Fanny was sobbing. ‘ What can I do George ? * 
were the words that I heard. ‘ I really have tried, 1 
have indeed. I — I cannot care for you — oh I ’ — 
here a burst of tears. 

‘Won’t you try once more, Fanny?’ answered a 
manly voice absolutely broken by sobs. ‘ I wouldn’t 
mind stopping here seven years* if you could but love 

Now, when I heard this I was so ashamed to think that 
I should be there to hear their conversation unawares, 
that I have no doubt my face was crimson up to the 
roots of my hair ; but it was not easy to withdraw both 
mlently and swiftly ; and though I did my best, I not 
only heard her reply, that trying was useless, but al- 
lude to a promise that she had made, that she would 
try, and declare that she had kept it. 

‘Well, then,’ was his instant answer, ‘will you give 


OFF TEE 8KELLI08. 


67 


me one kiss ? and I will go, Fanny, and promise never 
to urge you any more.’ 

I had got away by this time, and I buried myself 
among the bracken, and sat blushing for five or six min- 
utes ; then I got up, ran, whooping to the dog, over 
the brow of the hill, and came up to them on the other 
side. There they sat side by side and hand in hand. 
They were quite calm now, but evidently both had 
been weeping sorely, and assuredly from their absolute 
quietude the farewell kiss of pity had been frankly 
given. 

Quite out of breath with agitation and with running, 
I displayed my mushrooms. They both rose at once, 
as if my return was to terminate their last interview. 
Miss Fanny went over the hill, and we went down it, 
returning homewards in absolute silence for more than 
a mile. 

Poor Mr. Smith ! my heart bled for him ; it seemed 
so hard that Miss Fanny could not like him, when he 
was undeniably so charming and so clever, besides be- 
ing, with the exception of Mr. Mompesson, the hand- 
somest man of his age. 

‘Would you like some mushrooms for your supper, 
Mr. Smith ? ’ I ventured to ask in a sympathizing tone, 
as I carried home my bonnet by the strings, but he 
was too deep in painful thought to observe that I had 
spoken, and very shortly, in spite of all my efforts, the 
sight of his silent misery completely ovei*powered my 
childish self-control, and I threw the bonnet on the 
grass and burst into a passion of tears, crying as if my 
heart would break. ‘ What’s the matter with the child ? * 
he exclaimed, rather roughly, for I have no doubt my 
tears irritated him in the then burdened state of his 
spirits. 

I did not dare to tell him what was the matter ; in- 
deed, what business had I to kn^w the circumstanos 
that distressed me ? 

‘ Are you tired ? ’ he asked, now gently. 

‘No,’ I whispered. 

‘ Are you hungry ? Here — ’ 

8 * 


68 


OFF THE SKELLIQ3. 


He took a biscuit from his pocket, and I protended 
to be glad of it, got up, wiped away my tears, and 
walked humbly by his side till we reached home, and 
entered roy mother’s parlor. It was all lighted up with 
the afternoon sunshine in which the hills and the 
heather were basking. The tea-things were on the 
table, and the tea was ready. 

‘ Why, Dolly,’ said my mother^ ‘ you have been cry- 
ing, — how red your eyes look. I hope you have not 
been naughty?’ 

‘No,’ said Mr. Smith, wearily throwing himself into 
his chair, ‘ the child has been good enough.’ 

‘ What a lovely afternoon it has been,’ observed my 
mother. 

‘Has it?’ he replied, looking out of the window. 
‘Ah. Ay, so it has.’ With what a weight of pity 
does patience in those who are suffering burden the 
minds of the lookers on. There sat Mr. Smith calmly 
and most quietly ; he was not yielding to unmanly sul- 
lenness, and he was resolutely obliging himself to eat 
and to drink. Seeing this, I could do neither, for my 
tears chased one another into my cup, and the bread 
and butter choked me when I tried to swallow. 

In reply to mamma’s questions I said that my head 
ached, and I had a ball in my throat. She said I might 
lie on the sofa ; and perhaps thinking that she might 
suppose some past ill-behavior or carelessness caused 
this crying fit, Mr. Smith said, with a kindness that 
made me cry still more, ‘Dolly did her lessons very 
well to-day, she always does. In fact, I never have a 
fault to find with her.’ I dare say mamma thought 
that this was a little unfair to Snap, who took far more 
pains with his lessons than I did, and now sat by with- 
out re(;eiving any share of commendation. 

‘ I am afraid you spoil my little girl,’ she said with a 
smile, ‘for I generally observe that whatever she does 
is right.’ 

‘Ah, well,’ said Mr. Smith with a sigh, ‘if I have 
done harm in that way hitherto, I shall do no more. 
That’s all over now.’ 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


69 


My mother, who had risen, turned with surprise on 
hearing this ; and he added, as if careless of our pres- 
ence. ‘You always said, you know, Mrs. Graham, that 
you should not wish me to stay a day longer than I 
liked.’ 

‘No, certainly not,’ my mother replied; ^ under the 
circumstances I should wish you to feel perfectly free.’ 

‘Well, then,’ he replied, ‘I should like to go to- 
morrow — ’ 

‘ To go home ? ’ she asked. 

‘ Yes, to be sure,’ he replied ; ‘ I owe it to them to go 
home. But the worst of it is — the worst of it is, they 
will all be delighted, I know.’ 


60 


OFF THE SKELLIGH. 


CHAPTER V. 

The owl, for all his feathers, was acold. — Keats. 

W HEN Snap heard that Mr. Smith meant to loav« 
us, he melted also, and added a chorus of sobs 
to my tears, while poor Mr. Smith, who perhaps 
longed for a little feminine sympathy, and was really 
fond ol my mother, begged her to come out and walk 
on the grass with him. 

They went out, and after some time I stole into my 
little room, and from its window saw them moving 
slowly along over the short grass, on the hillock behind 
the mill. The whole sky was flooded with orange, 
though the sun was below the horizon ; the mild even- 
ing star shone, and a crescent moon was hanging just 
over the phantom-like sails, which were going softly 
round in the early dusk. Wind was rising, and I saw 
the miller’s wife shut her door and begin to blow her 
fire, for the evening was chill. It gave me a strange 
sense of restlessness and yearning sympathy to see them 
pacing so long in the wind, where they could only see 
jhe moving of the sails, the darkening landscape, and 
iriving clouds. « 

I sobbed myself to sleep that night, but, oh how in- 
dignant Snap and I were when we found the next morn- 
ing that Mr. Smith had gone away without taking leave 
of us. 

Here I must make a highly unphilosophical reflection, 
which, however, comes from experience, namely, that 
what happens to a person once is likely to happen 
again. It nas repeatedly happened to me that people 
have beep ivithdrawn from me without being able oi 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


61 


finding convenient occasion for saying any last words, 
Now those last words very often set many things right. 
I have not been able to say, — ‘ Though we have often 
quarrelled, there is no friend whom I care for more.’ 
Nor has it been said to me, — ‘I may not have shown 
it much, but I have, notwithstanding, a very sincere 
alfeetion for you.’ 

So Mr. Smith went away, and during the following 
winter my mother was our teacher in the morning, and 
we ran about over the common during the short winter 
afternoons. 

Those little houses were not comfortable in the win- 
ter; we slept in one and breakfasted in the other, so 
that in all weathers we were obliged to be often run- 
ning in and out. The rain and the melted snow also 
soaked in at the doors rather freely, and the casements, 
besides being of a restless, noisy disposition, had a trick 
of bursting open in high winds. 

Yet we were often indescribably happy in those cot- 
tages. Their loneliness gave us the sense of having 
nobody to interfere with our becoming more and more 
ourselves. The common was so wide, that we had 
plenty of room to spread and grow in. At Christmas 
there was a deep fall of snow, and it was not safe to go 
to church. Our nurse could no longer bear the dull- 
ness of her lot, and went away, so we were left with 
only one servant, and we spent some days in moving 
our mother’s books from the place in which they had 
been kept, to a dry place in the mill. As we always 
chose to carry more at a time than we could properly 
manage, a good many were dropped about and lost for 
a few days, from being covered over ; but no harm came 
to them, it was so cold that the snow was perfectly 
dry. 

Sometimes little Amy was carried to the mill to play 
with Sampson’s children, and sometimes Mrs. Sampson 
came and sat with us. She did not like what she 
called ‘ the awful way the moon had,’ and the drifts 
were so deep that she never let her children stir a step 
beyond the path between us and the mill. 


62 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


How it snowed, and how keen the wind was ! I re- 
member to this day the disgust with which we heard 
Sampson advising my mother by no means to let us go 
out, lest we should be lost. ‘ Let them dig and sweep 
out a path for themselves, ma’am,’ said he ; ‘ but if I 
were you, I would not let them stir a step beyond it.’ 
When it had gone on snowing for eleven days, there 
was a consultation between the miller and his wife, as 
to whether or not he should go in his cart to market 
the next day; and I believe he would gladly have 
stayed at home, but that there was no butcher’s meat 
in either his house or ours, and we were falling short of 
candles. 

There was a ridge about half a mile long, that rose a 
hundred yards beyond the mill. It was level, and the 
wind had been so high that the top of it was nearly 
bared of snow, and the drifts were laid up in the hollow 
that cut us off from it. 

Sampson and a man who came to help him, dug a 
lane in the easiest part of the rise, and got the horse 
and cart up it. Once on the rise, Sampson could easily 
get on, for by taking an extremely circuitous path he 
could keep on high ground till he reached the turnpike 
road. 

We had finished our supper, as I remember, that 
night, and had been allowed to sit up till ten o’clock, 
because our little bedrooms were so cold ; when just as 
the candle burnt down into the socket, mamma told us 
to read a chapter in the Bible to her before we went to 
bed. ‘ And, I suppose, we must begin to burn the last 
candle,’ she observed. 

So Snap was sent to ask for it (for I need not say 
we had no bells), and he presently came back with 
rather a blank face. 

‘ W e’re not to have it,’ he exclaimed, ‘ Mrs. Sampson 
has come for it.’ 

Sarah, our maid, followed him, trembling. 

‘ Sampson is not come home, ma’am,’ she cried ; ‘ and, 
oh, if you please, will you come to Mrs. Sampsop’s ? for 
she thinks he is lost in the snow.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


68 


Mrs. Sampson was close behind her, standing with a 
dull, white face ; her hands were hanging at her side, 
and she said slowly, and with a sort of passionless in- 
difference : ‘ Yes, that’s just what I do think. He’s lost 
in the snow, and by this time he’s froze.’ 

My mother had started up, and taken hold of her. 
‘ Where have you been ? ’ she exclaimed. ‘ Oh, Sarah, 
the poor thing is dreadfully cold.’ 

‘ I’ve been sitting up a-top of the mill,’ she replied ; 
* I want your other candle to show a light to him ; but 
he won’t come, he’s froze.’ 

Sampson’s great white cat, that lived in the mill, had 
accompanied her, and was mewing uneasily, and rub- 
bing himself against my mother’s gown. 

‘lie knows as well as I do, poor beast,’ said Mrs. 
Sampson ; and certainly the dumb creature showed 
every sign of distress. ‘ But I must go back and snuff 
the candle,’ she continued ; ‘ I left it burning, and there 
is but an inch of it left.’ 

‘Do,’ said my mother, ‘come to the mill, and I will 
come with you. It is late certainly for him to be 
away, but you must not be downhearted.’ 

‘ Oh no,’ she replied, looking drearily about her, ‘ I 
am not downhearted, why should I be ? ’ 

Sarah and my mother glanced at one another, but 
neither could suggest the doing of anything more. 
They got Mrs. Sampson to drink some wine made hot 
in a little saucepan, then a log was put on the fire, and 
as it could not be expected of us that we should go to 
bed, we had leave to sit by it, and they left us — my 
mother to sit with the poor wife, and Sarah to make 
herself useful in case Sampson appeared. We sat by 
that fire a long time. Our mother did not appear, so at 
last we crept up-stairs to my little bedroom and looked 
out. There was the light burning in the upper window 
of the mill, there was the wide expanse of snow with 
the great white moon hanging orver it, and beyond on 
the ridge ^here were the owls fl tting about mousing 
and hooting. I never liked the owl’s call — it is but 
two notes of music tied together with a moan. 


64 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


We listened. No sound of wheels, no sign our 
mother’s return. Our cuckoo-clock struck eleven, and 
with one accord we put on our out-of-door clothing, 
and resolved to run across to the mill, and beg her 
to let us stay with her there. 

Running briskly along the path we got to the mill- 
door and opened it, letting in a broad ray of moonlight, 
which showed us the mice running about, but we heard 
no voices above. We thought our mother must bo 
gone to the cottage. 

Of course whatever my brother did I did. He shut 
the door, and said he should get up by Sampson’s path, 
on to the ridge. I followed, and we both fell into a 
drift almost directly, and were up to our necks without 
much chance of getting out again. There was snow in 
our nostrils, and our sleeves and hats had snow in them ; 
but I cannot say 1 was afraid, because we were so close 
to the mill. Still I did think it a pity Snap would 
insist on floundering up the path instead of trying to 
get back again ; but I followed, and in less time than 
could have been hoped we came to a place where the 
drift had been carefully shovelled away and beaten 
down, and got on the ridge, which was nearly bared by 
the wind. It was so thinly covered with snow that 
the tops of the grass peered througli. It was also 
printed with the feet of rabbits, not a few of whom 
were dancing about on it seeking a scanty meal, while 
an owl here and there might be seen skimming about 
looking after the young ones. 

I cannot describe the excitement that took posses- 
sion of our minds at that moment. There we were out 
in the snow in the middle of the night, on the ridge 
that we had so long desired to reach. Nobody knew 
of our absence. The tall white mill with its lanky 
skeleton sails looked clear and large in the intense 
moonlight ; the clean white ridge was before us ; the 
heavens, swept bare of clouds, and glittering with stars, 
appeared wonderfully deep and remote; the rabbits 
darted by close to our feet; the hooting owls almost 
brushed our clothes. We stood a moment panting 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


60 


with joy at finding ourselves in such a novel situation^ 
and then Snap tossed back his head like a young colt 
that has regained his liberty, and set off running along 
the ridge at his utmost speed. 

Of course I followed, and we both utterly forgot 
poor Sampson in the bliss of that midnight enterprise. 
The wild flight of those clear shadows of ourselves that 
sped on before, the strange silence, broken by noises 
yet more strange, such as the hooting of an owl as she 
stood on the snow picking the bones of some hairy 
little victim, or the forlorn squeal of a rabbit when it 
felt the fanning wings of its fate sailing over it in 
ghostlike stillness, and shutting out the light of the 
moon. On we ran, wild with excitement and delight. 
We could not be seen from the cottage, nor from the 
window in the mill, and we did not slop till we came 
to the end of the ridge, which was about half a mile 
long, and descended so abruptly that two or three 
steps too far brought Snap up to his eyes in the drift 
again. 

And now came the return ; that was more thought- 
ful and slow. What if we should be discovered ? we 
were tired, too, and were in twenty minds whether to 
hasten or linger. To linger was to prolong the time 
before discovery should overtake us ; but if we hastened 
we might not be fbund out at all. 

Sometimes running, sometimes loitering, we had per- 
haps traversed half the ridge, were very cross, rathei 
cold, and in exceedingly low spirits, when suddenly 
Snap exclaimed, with a vehement shout of joy, ‘ IIur-> 
rah ! there’s the horse — there’s the cart ; ’ and before I 
could see them his voice dropped, and he said, ‘ I don’t 
see Sampson.’ 

I looked, and at the side of the ridge a very little 
way down the shallow slope I saw the horse and cart, 
and something in the cart. The horse was standing 
stock still. He had evidently been guided up to the 
foot of the ridge, but perhaps it had proved too steep 
for him, and he either would not or could not climb it. 

We ran hastily on, well aware that Sampson must 


66 


OFF THE SKELLIQS 


tave lost liis way, or he would not have gone into that 
hollow at all ; and when we drew near we saw that he 
was lying in the bottom of the cart, and appeared to be 
dozing. 

Snap was again in an ecstasy. At the harvest home, 
Sampson; usually the most sober of men, had been re-^ 
ported to have come home ‘ a little fresh ; ’ Snap thought 
tliis was the case again, and shouted to me to come down 
the slope and get into the cart, for he meant to drive it 
to the mill himself. His joy and pride were great, 
and mine, I suppose, must have helped me to flounder 
through the snow. My hat was full of it when he 
helped me to climb into the clumsy thing, and I sobbed 
for want of breath, but as he said it was all right, 
I was ashamed to cry, and he picked up the whip and 
began to use all his efforts to induce the horse to back. 
The poor beast was very stiff and weary ; but blows, 
shouts, and vigorous pulls at the bridle roused him at 
last, and Snap mounted and began his triumphant prog- 
ress. 

But Snap, child as he was, soon perceived that though 
he could make the horse go, he could not make him 
take the direction he had intended. 

The creature woke up more and more, and tried the 
vidge in two or three different places, backing when he 
found he could not drag the cart up, and making for an 
easier slope. At last, with incredible efforts, and kick- 
ings and stumblings most lamentable, he got up. All 
this time poor Sampson slumbered, while we in our 
ignorance did not attempt to wake him, lest he should 
take the reins from us; all we did for him was to 
clear the snow from his face, and shake it from his gar- 
ments, when it flew into the cart, while the horse strug- 
gled in the deep drift. And now we were on the top 
of the ridge ; and ,that accomplished the horse stood 
stock still again. I remember that this time it was 
very hard to make him move, but by dint of shouts, 
stamping, and use of the whip, we got him in the end 
to set flinth on a tolerably quick trot; and wo had 
nearly reached the path we had ascended, when out oi 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


67 


the mill issued Mrs. Sampson, my mother, and Sarah, 
running as if for their lives. The happy sound of the 
wheels had reached them, and at the same time the ex- 
ceeding noise and disturbance in the cart, together 
with grievous jolting and rattling, roused poor Samp- 
son a little, and just as we stopped and Mrs. Sampson 
fipi’ang into the cart, he lifted his head from his breast 

‘Oh, my blessed, blessed husband,’ exclaimed the 
poor woman, bursting into tears, and taking his heaa 
on her capacious bosom, ‘are you froze, John? How 
do you feel ? ’ 

Sampson looked about him and raised himself. She 
shook him, repeating, ‘ How do you feel, John ? ’ 
Whereupon he exerted himself sufficiently to answer 
very slowly, ‘ I feel as if all my bones were broke.’ 

Never was the wisest speech received with greater 
applause. Mrs. Sampson and Sarah each took a foot, 
and began to rub unmercifully, but the process of jolt- 
ing and bruising that he had just gone through were 
probably the best part of the discipline that brought 
him to his senses, for he was soon able to get down 
and slowly express his sui-prise at finding it so late. 
He must have been dozing there some time when we 
had rushed along the ridge, for in our joy and hurry, 
we had passed without noticing him. No one took 
any notice of us. The moon was just setting, and I 
remember seeing mother stand with a pitched fag- 
got held high to light us into the cottage by the mill. 
I remember also, that when first they wished Sampson to 
try and walk down to his door, he looked forlornly at 
us, and said slowly, with a deep sigh, ‘Women and 
children, — women and children,’ — but he was obliged 
to yield himself to our help, and we all four pushed, 
pulled, and supported him till he got into his house, 
and then he said to my mother, ‘ W ell, ma’am, I could 
humbly wish to know whatever all this means.’ 

That one word ‘humbly’ expressed all his manly 
displeasure and pride at finding himself under personal 
thraldom to the women and children.’ 

Soon after this I curled myself up in a corner of the 


B8 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


^arin kitchen, and fell asleep, when no doubt I was 
^ariied home to bed, for when I woke there I was 
Qone the worse. 

The next morning Snap was alternately penitent and 
exultant, and while we were waiting till my mother 
same down to breakfast, he made one of those speed les 
which, because I could not make out its meaning, I 
could not forget. 

‘ ril tell you what,’ said this puny philosopher, ‘ I 
used always to hate the morals, — but it’s no good! 
They’re in everything. It’s my belief they’re a part of 
the world. Yes, they’re ingrain.’ 

I had generally disliked the morals too ; what child 
takes kindly to ‘ hence we may learn ? ’ but I by no means 
troubled myself as to Snap’s general meaning ; .and my 
mother shortly coming down, he gave her a fair and 
faithful account of our midnight adventure, adding, 
‘ It is a wonder how Missy ever scrambled out of that 
drift ; it was over her head ! I thought for a minute 
she was lost when she rolled plump into it, and the 
snow fell together and covered her, — and so,’ he ad- 
ded, in a tone of deep reflection, — ‘and so, mother, 
I’ve made up my mind to give it up.’ 

‘ Y es,’ she answered, ‘ you had better.’ 

‘ For,’ he continued, ‘ of course we had no business 
to go out at night and get into danger, and it would be 
fair if you were to say that was evil.’ 

‘ I certainly do say so,’ she replied, ‘ though I have 
no intention of punishing you. I cannot even pretend 
that I am displeased ! I am very thankful.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Snap, ‘for we saved Sampson’s life.’ 

‘ So now,’ replied my mother, ‘ I hope I shall hear no 
more of this morbid fancy of yours. Here you have an 
easy example of how good can come out of evil, so 
don’t lie awake again to puzzle about it. The case of 
Joseph is not a solitary one. It may be said a thou- 
sand times every day on earth, as it is in heaven, “ As 
for you, your thoughts were foi evil, but God meant it 
unto good” — God looked on this evil, you see, and 
caused it to bring forth good.’ 


lEK 8KELLI0S 


69 


Snaj. lie awake when it’s dark?’ I exclaimed. 
• I have uried, but 1 never could.’ 

Theieujion my mother said if I would promise never 
uo try again she would give me a bright new shilling 
lo I did promise, and got the shilling. 

Amy lost it the very next day down a crack; 
but a shilling was of no particular use in those days, 
excepting to play with, so we did not very much care ; 
a penny would spin just as well, and was a great deaJ 


70 


OFX TEE SKELLIQB. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Who shall decide when doctors disagree?’ 

M r. SAMPSON' got slowly better, and when the 
snow had thawed two doctors came to see him ; 
one said one thing, and one another, and neithef 
could decide on anything. 

‘ If it was not a very low temperature in which he 
had sat, why had he been overcome by sleep ? ’ said the 
one. 

But the other answered, ‘ If it had been cold enough 
to make him sleep, how was it that on awaking his 
limbs were not frost-bitten ? ’ However, they gave him 
medicine, which did him good, and he got quite well 
again. 

And now followed two years, during which we were 
governed by a succession of tutors, some of whom were 
very inefficient, and most of whom were very young. 
The last but one ran away, like the fii'st, previously 
borrowing of my mother a small sum of money which 
she had by her. In the reign of the tutor who followed 
him, our absent father began again to become an im- 
portant personage in our estimation. I used to hear of 
his letters, — how he sent his love to us; and how 
mamma might now be able to go out to him to 
Australia, but that she could not take us with her, and 
could not afford to put us to school and leave us behind. 

We also learnt that we owed our food and education 
entirely to our mother’s exertions, and that the ‘ Math- 
ewmatics,’ as nurse had long ago called her different 
scientific investigations and studies, had proved profita- 
ble, for that though papa had prospered since be left 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


71 


England, he had not yet been able to pay the debts 
contracted before he left us. 

Towards the end of these years prospects brightened. 
Many new clothes were made for us. Our mother, 
though she seemed happy, would sometimos look at us 
with a tender regret, and treat us with outward demon- 
strations of affection which were not usual with her. 

She also conversed with us much more than usual. A 
sort of instinct told me the reason : and one day, in the 
dusk of a summer evening, I put my arms round her 
neck and whispered, ‘ Mamma, are you going to Aus- 
tralia ? ’ 

In the same tone she answered, ‘Yes, my dearest 
child, yes.’ 

She wept and I wept for a few minutes. 

‘ Are we going to school, mamma, and won’t you let 
us come out to you soon ? ’ I inquired, sobbing quietly. 

She seemed unable to talk, but told me that my 
brother knew everything, and I might ask him. 

So when we had kissed each other a great many 
times and cried together, I went to find Tom, and he 
told me that in one week mamma was going to sail, 
and that we were going to school. 

This he told me in nearly as few words as I have 
here set down, adding that Uncle Rollin was so very 
kind that he had promised to take charge of us. 

We knew this Uncle Rollin very well by reputation. 
My mother often talked of him. He had brought her 
up, acted like a father to her, and during her school- 
holidays she had spent many a happy week with him 
on board his yacht. 

‘ But I thought he always lived in his yacht,’ I ob- 
served, ‘ and had no house ? ’ 

So he did, Tom told me, and we were to go there 
also till it suited him to put us to school. 

The very next morning Uncle Rollin appeared, to- 
gether with a weather-beaten sailor. The first words 
we heard him say, after he had kissed our mother, 
were in praise of this sailor, who had been some years 
ago, he told us, steward of the ‘Nancy,’ of Havre. 


72 


OFF THE SK^LLIOS. 


We regarded Uncle Rollin with attention, lie was 
ruddy, hale, and, moreover, remarkably shy ; while he 
ate his breakfast he maintained silence, unless when he 
spoke to the steward, in whose presence he seemed to 
find comfort, and who waited on him. 

Uncle Rollin saw mamma shedding tears, and, in 
order to comfort her, forthwith began to describe his 
yacht — by name the ‘ Curlew.’ He assured her that 
we should have many comforts while we were on 
board; and that as for the boy, if his tutor could lake 
to a sea life, he might probably not send him away at 
ail ; that every fine Sunday, when he was in port, he 
landed and went to church, and in foul weather he had 
a church rigged in the chief cabin, so that there need 
be no fear lest we should grow up like heathens. 

He was a very remarkable person. Even at that 
early age I was impressed by his peculiarities, his in- 
tense shyness, his dislike to being looked at, and his 
silence. 

He had been brought up to the sea, and when young 
had been a lieutenant in the navy, but he had early left 
the service, and having come into possession of a hand- 
some independence, he had chosen a way of life that 
developed his eccentricities more and more. 

The ‘ Curlew,’ as it appeared, was a handsome fore- 
and-aft schooner of 300 tons, built upon the lines of a 
Bermuda clipper, and manned by a picked crew. 

These facts conveyed little to our minds, but the 
manner in which they were said abundantly proved 
that the owner of the ‘ Curlew ’ was proud of his yacht ; 
accordingly, as we were about to sail in her, we became 
proud of her too, and hearing what a fast sailer she 
was, we were glad, for wo supposed that would add to 
our dignity. 

He talked for some time to our mother, and we 
gathered that this said fore-and-aft vessel (mysterious 
expressions, meaningless, but fascinating) was fitted up 
with unusually large cabins. There was the chief cabin, 
whose size and convenience the captain greatly insisted 
on ; there were three charming state-rooms ; and, more- 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8. 


73 


over, there was an after cabin, which had been fitted up 
expressly for his late sister, was sometimes used as a 
sleeping apartment, and also as a drawing-room. This 
cabin I learned that I was to have so long as I remained 
on board. In one berth I was to sleep, and my clothes, 
luy toys, and my books were to be disposed in the 
lockers. 

My mother’s face brightened as these contemplated 
an'angements were unfolded to her, and as for me, my 
heart danced with delight. 

‘ And what had he done with the old brig ? ’ she in«. 
quired. 

The old brig was dear to her heart as the occasional 
home of her girlhood; and she and Uncle Rollin began 
to talk of the black hull as if it were a sentient thing, 
and with as much affection as they might have naturally 
felt if the said hull had been able to return the sentiment. 

‘I hope my boy and girl will be dutiful and good, 
she presently said. 

‘ Why, as to children,’ he replied kindly, ‘ I never 
did mind them ; but this tutor, Mary Anne, he is a 
peaceable, quiet man, and will not make trouble and 
mischief, eh, Mary Anne ? ’ 

‘ He is the most passive of mortals.’ 

‘ He can have one of the state-rooms and your boy 
the other. I say, that boy has a head ! Is he like 
what you were at his age ? ’ 

‘ He is not very different,’ said my mother, with a 
smile. 

‘ Then I’ll turn schoolmaster again, and teach him 
navigation.’ 

Tom, upon this, was vehement in his thanks, and I, 
supposing that navigation must be a delightflil study, 
cried out, 

‘And me toe, Uncle Rollin. I want to learn navi- 
gation.’ 

Tom began to explain that navigation was not at all 
a fit study for a girl, but mamma checked him, perhaps 
because she knew that to be willing to learn navigation 
was to take the shortest way to the old man’s heait. 

4 


74 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


Indeed, having thus favorably brought myself undei 
his notice, he patted me on the head, and remarked 
that my mother was about my present height when she 
first began to sail in the old brig with him. 

The old brig, as we afterwards learned, had been 
quite a crack vessel in her day, a privateer, and even 
now she looked well at sea, though she had suflTered so 
much in a late gale that he had almost decided not to 
let her m -ive from her moorings any more. We under- 
stood that several old mariners were pensioned off by 
him and allowed to find a congenial home in her. 
‘ And,’ said he, ‘ the people had nothing to do, so I am 
employing them in caulking her sides and overhauling 
her standing rigging.’ 

‘ And yet she is never to go to sea again,’ said our 
mother, in a tone of absolute regret. 

‘Not she, but I could not bear to strip her like a 
wreck.’ 

After this Tom and I went out with our little sister 
Amy. Dear little Amy was going with mamma, and 
in the mean time we could hardly endure her out of 
our sight. We gave her the handsomest of our pos- 
sessions, and the most gaudy of the pictures painted 
with our own hands, and she promised to learn to write 
running hand that she might write letters to us. 

When we came in we found poor mamma very ner- 
vous, and much agitated. Uncle Rollin was gone out 
‘ for a stretch ’ over the hills, and had said that he 
positively must leave her in two days and take us 
with him. 

I will not attempt to describe the intervening two 
days. The anguish that children cause under such cir- 
cumstances by their delight in the bustle and their ex- 
citement of joy in the prospect of a change, we no 
doubt inflicted on our mother at intervals. We cried 
when we saw her distress, but we felt little real oppres- 
sion of heart ; and our boxes were packed, and they 
and our mother’s great crates full of books were trav- 
elling by a wagon across the country, and we were ten 
miles away from our mother and our little sister and from 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 75 

the great green common by breakfast time on the third 
day. 

I was a strange little creature, as I gather from things 
that I have heard said since by people who knew me 
then. But no lese strange was my new guardian : he 
was very silent, very ill at ease, the land sights and 
Bounds oppressed him, he longed for his yacht, yet he 
took a curious interest in a bunch of wild flowers which 
some village children gave me when we stopped to 
change horses. 

These children were coming from school. Tom and 
I had been allowed to get out of the chaise, and I was 
sitting on a mossy bank crying for my lost mamma, 
when they came up, and stopping before me, stared at 
me and my tears. At last the eldest girl among them 
asked me confidentially why I was crying, and I told 
her ; whereupon she took up her small apron to wipe 
my cheeks, and these good little Samaritans presented 
me with posies, and gave me such comfort as they 
could. 

What they said was not much to the purpose, I dare 
say, but it made me happier to talk. I remember one 
speech very well : it was a strange one, but true. I had 
said to the eldest girl that I was sure I should cry every 
day till I saw my mamma again. 

‘ Oh no, you won’t. Miss,’ she answered. ‘ Why, my 
mother died this spring, and I cried ever so at first, 
but now I never cry except when I go through the 
churchyard.’ 

I said I did not wish to forget my mother. She 
answered that I should not forget, only I should get 
used to it. 

What is there indeed that we cannot get used to ? 
In manhood and womanhood we do not like to be 
reminded that such is the case, but childhood is less 
sophisticated, and I was pleased to be assured by this 
more experienced child that she had got used to the 
loss of her mother. If she no longer cried whose 
mother was dead, I hoped I should not cry long foi 
mine who was only a long way oflf. 


T6 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


We '^rove away, and I began to like Uncle Rollin, 
He shortly stopped the chaise as he drove through a 
small town and bought us some plums. He produced 
a new half-crown of resplendent brightness, and handed 
it to me to pay for them ; and when I said what a pity 
it was to spend anything so beautiful, and proposed ro 
go without the plums that he might keep it, he brought 
forward a shilling, paid the woman for her fruit, and 
when I handed him back the half-crown, he said, ‘ Keep 
it, child.’ 

Small refections of cakes, buns, sandwiches, and fruit, 
were very frequently bought for us during the morning, 
and these proofs of his good will I thought more of 
than of all my mother had said to me of his kindness 
in adopting us : yet she had taken great pains to make 
us understand that we owed him all gratitude and 
obedience. She had also told us that in Australia we 
could not have been educated without almost as effec- 
tual a separation from her as had taken place under the 
present arrangement. Brisbane, to which she was 
going, did not appear to our young minds to be a very 
desirable locality, for papa’s letters described rivers and 
creeks full of water-snakes, which the settlers some- 
times made pies of, and sometimes blew up with gun- 
powder when they found them knotted together, in 
unusual multitudes, in holes and crevices. Besides, he 
described a kind of caterpillar or grub which both na- 
tives and settlers roasted, and thought very delicate 
eating. A place where snakes riddled the banks of 
rivers full of holes, and where people ate caterpillars, 
could not be a nice place to live in. I only hoped my 
mother might never fall into the evil fashion of par- 
taking of the roasts ; and being now occupied with my 
flowers, I cried no more, excepting when I remembered 
how dull she would be without us ; and with all my 
yearnings after her, I was quite unaware what a great 
loss she really was to me. 

Evening came on, the July sun set, then it grew dark, 
and I fell sound asleep with weariness, but even in my 
dreams, little fool that I was, I thought of my dear 


OFF THE SKELLTGS. 

mamma with sympathy, and wished she could know 
how comfortable we were. 

At last somebody shook me. I woke, looked out of 
the window, saw the stars and heard voices. Three 
sailors were standing by the chaise, it had stopped, and 
they were taking down the boxes. 

TJncle Rollin led me across a meadow. I was very 
sleepy, and when we stopped, looking forward into the 
darkness, I saw numbers of stars glittering and waver- 
ing in the path, and understood that we were standing 
by the bank of a river; but I belonged to new peo- 
ple now, so though I was afraid I did not dare to say a 
word. 

We were shortly put into a boat. They had said 
that we were going on board in the gig ; Uncle Rollin 
himself had said that this was his gig, but sleepy as I 
was I heard the splashing of oars, and thought I knew 
better. There was quite light enough after a time to 
show that we were alongside a black hull, and then 
there were lanthorns to light us up a queer kind of 
ladder. 

Every one has seen the cabin of a yacht, but how 
difficult it would be to describe it. When I had been 
carried down the companion into the chief cabin of the 
‘ Curlew,’ I became wide awake ; and when I saw the 
rich fittings, the low ceiling, the strange lamp and 
fixed tables, and the general air of crowding and yet of 
order, I felt as if I was in fairy land, and this was an 
enchanted palace. 

As I ate my supper I however soon became sleepy 
again, and nodded between each mouthful. But I must 
gay that I was a little surprised at the conduct of my 
brother, who having something very hot given him to 
drink, became rather disrespectful, and insisted on singing 
a song. The captain said that the grog had got into his 
head, and I hoped it would soon come out, it made him 
look so red in the face ; but I had not much time for 
speculation, for a respectable-looking woman entered 
shortly and received orders to take me to bed. She 
led me into a beautiful and luxurious little room, tcld me 


78 


OFF THE SKELLIQS. 


!t was to be mine, and enlarged on its splendor and my 
fortunate position in being its sole possessor. I was 
amazed at the velvet and the gilding, and enchanted 
with my curious little bed, no less than with my new 
attendant, who told me she had formerly been the 
stewardess of a passenger vessel at the same time that 
her husband was steward, and that now she washed for 
my uncle, and mended and made his linen, but she was 
very glad we were come, for she had not half enough 
to do, and was often strangely dull. I might tell my 
mamma that she meant to be good to me. I might 
say that she was right glad to have me. ‘Mrs. 
Brand sent her respects,’ I could say, ‘ and wished her 
to make her mind easy, for she should reckon it a 
pleasure to attend to me.’ I repeated this message to 
myself, till I went to sleep, and in a vivid dream 
seemed to be telling my mother what a beautiful and 
most extraordinary place the ‘ Curlew’ was, and that 
she need not be uncomfortable about us, for though Tom 
had been tipsy once Mrs. Brand said it would not hap- 
pen again. 

The next morning I woke and looked about me be- 
wildered, the most wonderful thing I saw being the 
view through the tiny window close to my face. Oh 
what a lovely sight ! — a softly flowing river, with orange 
rays lying on it, and making it glorious and golden ; a 
great precipice that went up and up and up so high, 
that though I pressed my face against the glass I could 
not see the top of it ; trees growing in the rents ; ivy in 
round bushes hanging fi’om, or in long ribbands creep- 
ing up, the face of the rock, and wavering reflections 
of the passing ripples flowing all over my berth. The 
softest possible sound of water washing by and lapping 
the vessel’s side came to my enchanted ears, and 1 
climbed down from my berth and began to dress with 
all expedition. Mrs. Brand came in shortly, told me 
it was late, but she thought I should have been tired, 
and therefore had not called me. She then opened a 
box, took out one of my new bonnets, a little cloak 
that mamma had made for me, and a sunshade, and 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


79 


desired that in future I would not rise till she came to 
me, for she should always wish to brush my hair her- 
self. ‘ Young ladies,’ she remarked rather crossly, ‘ had 
no call to wait on themselves, and ought not to think 
of it;’ then looking over the contents of my boxes, 
she shook her head disconsolately, and said, ‘ Bless my 
lieart, everything’s new, there’s not a stitch wanted 
anywhere.’ 

‘ Mamma gave me some cotton, and I am to mend 
my clothes when they are torn,’ I said, by way of 
showing that I meant to be a good child. 

‘You are to do no such thing. Miss,’ she answered 
sharply. ‘I have particular orders — most particular, 
to wait on you myself.’ 

She soon conducted me on deck, where I found 
Tom, and we stood gazing about us in mute astonish- 
ment. Opposite to us towered a grey rock, and here 
and there threw out fantastic masses of projection. Its 
summit was fringed with wood, and the narrow river 
looked like a lane of water, for the rock under which 
we lay was equally high; it was broken and rent^ 
frilled with shrubs, and dabbled with flashes of sun- 
shine. 

‘I hope we shall stay here a long time,’ said Tom, 
after a pause of admiration. 

‘ And I hope not,’ answered Mrs. Brand, ‘ a dull place 
with not a house to be seen — but I dare say you will 
get over your time very well. I should not wonder if 
you see Tintern, and Chepstow castle, and you too, 
Miss, if you behave yourself pretty, and sit still in the 
gig-’ 

‘ I know the ruins of Chepstow are very beautiful,’ 
said Tom. 

‘Well,’ replied Mrs. Brand, ‘they would be if they 
were in better repair. I don’t think much of them 
myself, and the shops in Chepstow are very bad, and 
remarkably dear.’ 


80 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Oh! methinks how slow 
Tills old moon wanes I She lingers my detidres. 

Like to a step-dame or a dowager 

Long withering out a young man’s revenue. 

Midsummer ^ghfs Dream^ 

A nd now followed a week that I shall always think 
of with pleasure, because all tilings being so new 
• and strange, made deep impressions ; and partly 
owing to the loveliness of the scenery, partly to the per- 
fect weather, and partly to the kindness of Uncle Rollin, 
all these impressions were delightful. 

He loved fishing, and he loved solitude, and every 
morning while Brand waited at breakfast we used to 
hear orders given about fishing-tackle, bread and meat, 
and fruit, a case-bottle of spirits, and pea-coat, &c. 
These things followed in undeviating order; then ho 
would take out his watch and name the exact time at 
which the gig was to be lowered ; then he would sigh, 
and there would come a pause, — sometimes this was a 
long pause, as if of doubt, but it generally ended by 
his saying, to our infinite relief, 

‘ Got any milk on board ? ’ 

‘ Got a quart, sir,’ the steward would reply. 

‘ Then put up a bottle for the boy, and I suppose the 
child must go too.’ 

This last concession always seemed to be wrung out 
of him after an internal struggle ; and on hearing it we 
would murmur out our delight, but only in the quietest 
fashion, for he hated a noise and seldom talked to us, 
though it appeared that he liked to hear our chatter to- 
gether, for when we were talking with soft subdued 
voices he would sometimes pat us on the head and look 
at us with an air of amusement and pleasure. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


81 


W e were expected, however, to be perfectly quiet in 
the boat, and we seldom expressed our pleasure except- 
ing by stealthy glances at one another, till perhaps after 
a long pull he would steer for some level field, and put 
us ashore for two or three hours to run about and make 
as much noise as we pleased. 

At the end of the week, as something had to be done 
to the yacht, he took us to an hotel close to the Wynd- 
cliffs. Something almost always seems to want doing 
to a yacht, as far as I can see. She wants painting six 
times as often as a house. When she is in port, every- 
thing in her is overhauled, and any one would think 
that a day or two of work, after she starts on her voy- 
age, would get her into sea trim ; but no, from the day 
she leaves one port till she sails into another, they are 
always scraping and scrubbing her, though she has no 
chance of contracting any dirt or dust, excepting from 
the frequent tarring, the endless painting and varnish- 
ing and the greasing that goes on. People usually sup- 
pose that there must be rest and quiet at sea, but I 
never saw any ; sailors shout and sing so at their work, 
and what with hauling and setting sail, with reefing 
and furling, and their climbing about in every direction 
night and day, the noisiest town is more quiet than the 
‘ Curlew ’ was when I was on board her. 

So, as I said, we were taken to an hotel, and there 
we did not see much of our old uncle, but were gen- 
erally under Mrs. Brand’s care. She was allowed to 
hire a fly for us and take us about, and under her aus- 
pices we climbed over Banagar crags, and saw the green 
river beneath, with the little white boat on her bosom. 
Sometimes we were 800 feet high on the upland of the 
Wyndclifi*, or ran stumbling along among the ruins of 
Chepstow castle. 

Once we had a delightful treat : Uncle Rollin brought 
us down fi'om Monmouth bridge, through a strait called 
Bigs-weir, where the current is rapid, and the water 
eddies over slabs of green slippery rocks, leaving only 
ft narrow space for the passage of a boat. 

I can imagine nothing more glorious than the view 

4 # » 


82 


OFF TEE 8KELLT08. 


here : the rent rocks, the aspiring ramparts, grey below, 
green above, ever changing, but always fair. 

When we reached Bigs-weir bridge, there was the 
j)leasure of seeing the little mast lowered, while we 
went under the arch and sped on to Brook’s-weir, where 
little schooners and sloops lay taking in their cargoes. 
There were two small vessels on the stocks here, and 
we heard the delightful tapping of the shipwright’s 
hammers as we passed, but all eyes were looking on- 
ward now, and when we had rounded the point of Lyn- 
weir, we could see the glorious ruin of Tintern Abbey 
aspiring and roofless. 

I remember thinking to myself, ‘That old church 
does not look good, it looks angry and forlorn;’ and 
when we landed and walked about under the dazzling 
green ivy, and beneath a deep blue sky, I felt as if I 
was taking a great liberty. I was inclined to shrink 
away. It is like examining the old and ragged gown 
of some dead queen. What right had we, indeed, spy- 
ing about in these old people’s places now they were 
not there to see? I felt as if they perhaps did see, 
though, all the time, and was very much relieved when 
we got to the river again. 

Our tutor, Mr. Tolhurst, made his appearance while 
we were still at this hotel, but as he was supposed to 
know his duties towards us. Uncle Rollin never took 
the least notice of him beyond the first greeting, and 
never asked any questions even then. 

Not so Mrs. Brand; she regarded him with great dis- 
favor, and because the poor man made some remark 
tending to show that he meant to go out with us after 
our lessons, she rose, trembling with indignation, and 
gave him a piece of her mind. ‘What did he think 
she was there for? She would have him to know that 
she had particular orders to take care of us excepting 
at such times as we were at our learning with him. He 
had no call so much as to think about us at other 
times.’ She was explaining this to him with great 
heat, and would have gone into her qualifications for 
the task, if he had not cut her short by declaring his 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


entire satisfaction, and marching off to smoke with inucb 
alacrity. 

‘ Interfering fellow,’ she exclaimed when he was gone, 
‘ if I wasn’t sharp enough to look after my rights there 
wouldn’t be a thing left for me to do in this blessed 
world.’ 

So she bore us off, and very happy we were with her, 
sometimes driving out, sometimes scrambling over the 
cliffs, and often going to see the lovely ‘ Curlew,’ and 
fetch things out of her that might be wanted. 

There was some talk of a cruise in the Mediterranean, 
and this she told us would be delightful ; so we were 
sure it would. And we listened with the deepest in- 
terest to all her sea stories, though they abounded with 
phrases which conveyed little meaning to us. When 
she discovered this, she got books from the yacht and 
explained various matters to us, such as the difference 
between a full-rigged ship and a barque, which, she 
remarked, was so plain that she should have thought 
any child would have noticed it. 

She also took a world of trouble to teach us the 
names of various sails, but I do not remember that I 
took a special interest in any one but the spanker, the 
after fore-and-aft sail. According to one of her stories 
the boom of this alarming sail had knocked a man over- 
board. I did not doubt the fact; Spanker seemed a 
name only suitable for people and things that knew 
how to lay about them, and I was greatly delighted 
when she said the yacht had no spanker. Tom seemed 
to be very quick at understanding all she chose to tell 
him about the yacht. I was very much the reverse, but 
she comforted me by assurances that I should soon 
learn when we got on board. 

This desirable event at last took place. We were 
charged by Mrs. Brand to be ‘ as good as gold,’ and we 
should see the anchor hove up. I did not think much 
of this sight ; but the river in a great state of commo- 
tion and mud, and two little tug steamers backing and 
charging about like noisy, quarrelsome ducks, were well 
worth looking at. And when it was high tide how 


84 


OFF TEE 8KELLI08. 


busy every one was, and how grand it seemed to be 
towed out by one of them, and come rocking and 
curtseying on till we saw the great ships and the blue 
delightful sea. 

But my pleasure in this sight was soon over. I be- 
came first very unhappy, and then very ill. 1 was 
carried down by Mrs. Brand and laid in my berth, and 
night and day for nearly a week I endured the misery 
of sea-sickness. 

I wish it to be distinctly understood that I am sure 
Mrs. Brand was not glad I was ill, though she had the 
nursing of me. But I am sure she rejoiced to think 
that if I was to be ill she and no other woman had me 
in charge. 

Every morning Uncle Rollin came to the side of my 
berth and condoled with me, and Tom used to sit by 
me and try to amuse me, but in vain. At last one day 
all at once it became calm. I opened my eyes, and saw 
the banks of a river. Tom ran down to congratulate. 
I might now get up. We were in smooth water, and 
about to cast anchor. 

Mrs. Brand dressed me and carried me on deck. 
This was the Orwell, I was told. Those pretty banks 
led up to the village of Holbrook, and this red and 

i )articularly ugly town that we were approaching was 
pswich. 

I was so weak and ill that I sat on Uncle Rollin’s 
knee, while Tom fed me with some soup. Uncle Rollin 
then for tlie first time showing a great liking for me, 
and seeming full of concern and self-reproach. How- 
ever, he told me by way of comfort that finding I 
did not take kindly to a sea life he had resolved to put 
me to school for a time, and there, he said, I should 
learn to play on the piano and do lambswool work like 
other little girls. 

I was very much dejected on hearing this, but did 
not say anything, and shortly after the gig was manned 
and we went on shore. I then asked Tom, who seemed 
very low and dull, whether there was any help for this, 
and he said ‘ No.’ To my comfort and surprise he shed 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS, 


85 


a few tears of regret at this inevitable parting. No 
action of his since my memory began had ever given 
me such pleasure, and to this day when I think of it I 
am glad. 

How soon this to me important affair was arranged. 
Uncle Rollin had called on an old naval officer whom 
he knew, and asked if he could recommend a good 
school. 

‘My granddaughter,’ was the reply, ‘is with Mrs. 
Bell.’ 

‘ Are they good to the girls there,’ asked my uncle, 
‘ and do they take ’em to church, and see that they read 
their Bibles ? ’ 

‘All right as to that,’ replied the friend, ‘and the 
girls must be well cared for, they look so fresh and 
rosy.’ 

This conversation Uncle Rollin repeated to me when 
he came on board. He had not inquired the terms or 
any further particulars, but he had nearly decided to 
place me with this lady. 

I cried when he told me so, and felt very desolate at 
the notion of leaving him. When I expressed this he 
was greatly gratified, and said, ‘ Why, the child seems 
actually fond of me.’ 

The next day, dressed in my best, and holding Tom 
by the hand, I walked with Uncle Rollin to call on and 
perhaps be left with the mistress of my future lot. We 
went down many narrow streets, and came at last to 
an ugly house, as I then thought it, but I was too much 
agitated to observe things very keenly. We were 
shown into a parlor, and Uncle Rollin, made excessively 
nervous by my tears and Tom’s perturbed manner, 
wiped his brow, groaned, and declared that he wished 
the business was well over. 

A lady came in, a few hurried compliments were paid, 
and some kind directions given; then some parting 
kisses from both, and a present of five sovereigns from 
Uncle Rollin, and off they both went in urgent haste 
to terminate the nervous business. 

And now the old thought recurs: if I write this 


80 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


truly, I am in fear of Mrs. Bell even in this my cham- 
ber. What if she or the English teacher should ever 
see this at some future lime ! On the other hand, what 
pleasure is it to me to write it unless I represent things 
as they really were? I think I will take a middle 
course, and avow that I was not happy, but I will not 
enter much into particulars. 

Some of the things that made me uncomfortable, so 
dull, and so lonely, were no fault of Mrs. Bell’s. Some 
were my fault. 

One thing it was natural and inevitable that I 
should feel during those nine long years. This was the 
extreme youth of all the other pupils. I was the eldest 
when I entered ; I became increasingly the eldest, for 
during the whole time of my stay no pupil left school 
at a more advanced age than ten years. 1 was thus 
utterly deprived of companionship. It was essentially 
a preparatory school. I admit that in my education 
this did not matter. My uncle paid most liberally, and 
Mrs. Bell procured excellent masters for me — and for 
me only. I took all my lessons alone, as far as fellow 
learners were concerned. 

In some other matters, also, I had no just grounds 
for complaint. I had excellent food, a nice little bed- 
room, and my dress, which was provided by Mrs. Bell, 
was always in good taste, suitable, and ample. 

One grievance there, was a sad disadvantage to a 
eftild whose mother was at a distance : all the letters 
were read, not excepting those addressed to her, and 
all the letters received were also read, before the girls 
saw them. 

This was duly mentioned to Uncle Rollin, but he 
did not understand that it would soon shut me off 
fi*om real intercourse with my family, and make me, 
as I grew up, a stranger to my own mother and brother. 
My over-looked letters became short, stupid, and con- 
strained, and in consequence the replies suffered, and 
were increasingly vague and meagre. 

All the strange and unusual things that I knew were 
a8ele.ss, and ignorance of music at first embittered my 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


87 


days. I had to practise three hours a day, but with 
no taste, and a strong yearning after other pursuits. I 
scarcely made any progress at first, excepting in the 
theory. 

No, certainly it is of no use my trying to persuade 
myself that those were happy years. They were not. 
I had none to love but the little chubby pupils ; no one 
ever talked to me but the masters. I had no means at 
first of satisfying the cravings of my mind for informa- 
tion, for there were no books but school-books. Of 
course there were no newspapers, and no walks out of 
doors, excepting in the regular routine. Moreover, I 
stayed at school during the holidays, and for three 
years I never saw Uncle Rollin or my brother. 

Then I saw them both for one half hour. Oh, shall 
I ever forget how I looked at them, especially at Tom, 
and how my heart ached to see that assuredly if I had 
met him in the street I should not have known him ! 

He was a great fellow of fifteen, browned by ex- 
posure to sea breezes, and with a general air of a young 
naval officer about him. He was pleased to see me, 
and when he spoke, I did not recognize his voice, it 
was so changed. 

‘Should you know me, dear Tom?’ I ventured to 
ask. 

‘ Know you ? ’ he answmred, laughing ; ‘ why, you are 
not at all altered, and very little grown. What a lit- 
tle thing you are, Dorothy. I say,’ he continued, 
while Mrs. Bell talked to Uncle Rollin, ‘how tame 
you look. Missy. You used to be such a bold, daring 
little creature; don’t let them domineer too muchj 
pluck up a little spirit.’ 

My terror was very great lest Mrs. Bell should hear 
us whispering together, an act which was considered 
highly ill-bred. I did not dare to make any answer. 
‘ You seem to have a nice view out of this window,’ he 
continued, walking up to it. I followed, surprised to 
hear him say so, and I saw in his hand a large, a very 
large and bulky letter. I felt my heart beat almost 
more with fear than with joy; and while I stood 


88 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


motionloss, he walked round me, found my pocket-holej 
poked the great letter in himself, and continued to talk 
to me with easy assurance till I recovered my self^ 
possession. 

How soon that precious half hour was over. When 
Uncle Rollin rose to depart, I forgot the presence of 
Mrs. Bell, and burst into tears, imploring Tom not to 
forget me, and Uncle Rollin to let me come back soon. 

Uncle Rollin was troubled, and began, ‘If she was 
not such a puny little thing, I would take her back 
now.’ And he looked at Mrs. Bell, who, before Tom 
could say a word, assured him calmly that it was quite 
essential I should remain at school a few years longer. 

Tom gave her an expressive look, and said, with a 
smiling assurance that astonished me, ‘Very few indeed, 
I hope ; for my sister was by no means ignorant when 
she came here.’ 

Then they took leave of me; and for many weeks 
after my little snatches of leisure were cheered by 
Tom’s long delightful letter. It roused my courage, 
and nerved me to be indifferent to little discomforts, 
and bear all with a brave heart. Moreover, it told me 
of an arrangement which I soon felt the benefit of. I 
was to have a master to read English literature with me, 
and under his auspices I might read any books that the 
town library afforded. To this library my uncle had 
begun to subscribe for me, and when my dear master, a 
fresh, kind-hearted old clergyman, had read with me a 
few times I was much happier. I had so much more to 
think about. Moreover, I became fond of my master, 
liked to hear his dear heavy foot shuffling to the door, 
and liked to do and learn as much as I could, that he 
might be pleased with me. I was thirteen and a half 
years old, and could now play the bass of duets as well 
as most children of eight. As I sat wearily practising, 
I had now the English master to expect, and Tom’s let- 
ter to think about, — Tom’s letter, which told me of 
hunting bears in Norway, or sailing in summer-time 
into still fiords, and seeing at the bottom of the clear 
water hundreds of blue lobsters creeping about, and sea 


OFlf THE SKELL108, 


89 


anemones expanding like rows of prize chrysanthe- 
mums. 

If the girls had been of my own age, and Mrs. Bell 
had been in the least fond of me, the end of this would 
have been that I should have ceased to care for my rela- 
tions, and have attached myself entirely to the people 
about me. As it was, I clung pertinaciously to the 
memory of my mother. Uncle Rollin, and Tom, and 
longed for the day when school life would be over. ‘ A 
force de forger on devient forgeur,’ says the proverb. 
When I was sixteen I had practised till I absolutely 
began rather to like music ; and this feeling gradually 
increased, till I found it quite pleasant to take my les- 
sons. 

I never excelled, but I played very tolerably, and 
sung, as I was assured, agreeably. When I was sixteen 
and a half I received a present of a gold watch from 
Uncle Rollin, together with six sovereigns and the as- 
surance that he and Tom would come to see me very 
soon. Of course I expected them joyously for a week ; 
then I expected them anxiously for another week ; then 
I expected them with the sickness of hope deferred for 
a third week; and then I became ill, for the first and 
only time while I was at school. I believe nothing was 
the matter with me but disappointment. It was during 
the Midsummer holidays. I became very thin, very 
pale, and feverish ; could not eat, sleep, or sit up ; and 
at last a doctor was sent for. He ordered that I should 
be sent to Felixstowe, a charming little place, twelve 
miles from Ipswich. 

I was sent with the English teacher for a month, and 
came home quite cheerful, and almost strong. I had 
found shark’s teeth in the cliff, bought pieces of amber 
of the woman who polished them, and enjoyed the 
sight of the sea. 

I also saw lying at anchor, the hrig^ that famous brig 
in which my mother had spent her girlhood. It lay 
not far from Landguard fort, and I could see the old 
sailors on board, but of course they knew nothing 
about me ; and my timid proposal that we should take 


90 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


a rowing boat and go out to her with some tobacco and 
tea, bought with my money, was received with such 
honor that I never ventured to allude to it again. 

After my return came the first real sorrow of my life, 
but it was broken to me wdth a kindness and consider- 
ate indulgence which made me feel as if I was among 
friends for the first and only time during those dull years. 

Ah, well, I cannot describe this, — my hasty rush 
down-stairs, on hearing that there was a letter for me, 
the sudden pause, the slow quiet with which I was 
told to sit down, and the cold that seemed to drive in 
upon my heart when still there was silence. 

My mother was dead: her death had taken place 
sometime before my illness, and one of the first 
thoughts that flashed into my mind was of bitter re- 
gret that she would never read those letters that I had 
written to her from Felixstowe — and which I had been 
allowed by the English teacher to post unread. They 
were the only natural, unrestrained letters I had sent 
her since our parting, but I hoped she did not want 
them now. 

My precious mother! and her illness had been so 
short, but I knew she would have mentioned her far- 
off children if she had been able. It was my father 
who wrote, and he said very little, — even that was not 
all about my mother, for he added his thankfulness at 
Uncle Rollin’s goodness to us, and his hope that I was 
grateful and content. 

I was greatly grieved. 1 had so much indulged the 
ho})e of one day going out to her, and being with her 
when she was old, and yet I was quite aware, young as 
1 was, that mine could not be a very intelligent estimate 
of her character. I felt, even then, that she was doubt- 
less far above what I knew of her. I had only lost a 
child s mother^ whom I recollected as careful over me, 
indulgent, and kind — but as my own mind and feelings 
had expanded, I had believed and known that I should 
find her as different from what I had seemed to part 
from, as I was myself different from the child daughter 
who had been so sorry for her )n the going away. 


OFF THE SKELLTOS. 


91 


‘ She died as she had lived, in the fear of God, and 
in the peace and hope of the gospel.’ 

Those were my father’s words. Just at first I gave 
way to a passion of sorrow, but after the day when 
those sorrowful tidings came to me I always knew that 
my grief could be nothing compared with that of a child 
whc loses a present parent. The hope of something 
that I had craved for was gone — the hope of her com- 
pany ; but the actual difference caused by her removal 
was only the ceasing of those formal letters she had 
sent me, knowing when she wrote that they would be 
read over before 1 saw them. Letters from Tom or 
fi-om Uncle Rollin were of very rare occurrence now, 
and all my life seemed to be narrowed into the books I 
was reading and the languages I was learning. 

When I was seventeen I had, however, a great 
pleasure, for Mrs. Bell, having a sick friend who lived 
at Norwich, took lodgings there during the Midsum- 
mer holidays in order to be near her, and took me with 
her. 

So I saw the place where they know all about angels, 
and I was allowed to be a good deal in the Cathedral. 
It was like a glimpse of Paradise to me, and a renewal 
of babyhood. 

After this — that is, in the spring of the next year — 
I was taken to London, in obedience to a mandate of 
Uncle Rollin, who sent a handsome sum of money to 
pay all the expenses. Accordingly Mrs. Bell went with 
me herself, and left her little scholars under the care 
of her younger sister. It was all so arranged as to be 
a part of my education. The museums, the picture-gal- 
leries, the buildings, were all to be studied in a con- 
scientious and plodding way, with books in her hand 
and in mine, that I might be quite sure I had learned 
all I possibly could from them. 

It was on the first of June during this same year, 
and I was between eighteen and nineteen, when the 
next promise came from Uncle Rollin that he would 
call and see me. 

I was practising music when the letter was^venma* 


92 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


and oh, the tumult of my mind as I read! Tom wai 
not vvitl. liim, he said; an old friend of his, a Mr. Mom- 
pesson, .lad asked him to come and stay a few days a1 
iiis parsonage. 

Fully grown up and still at school. No talk of my 
leaving it yet. How my heart sickened and fainted to 
be alone with him, if only for an hour, that I might 
learn what he meant to do with me, something of 
Tom’s prospects, my father’s circumstances, and a thou- 
sand other things that I was ignorant of. Could he be 
come to release me and take me on board with him ? 
That I scarcely dared to think of. 

I heard a knock at the door, my music came to an 
end, and my heart appeared to stop too. The visitoi 
was ushered in, and oh, happy chance, for several min- 
utes I was alone with him. My delight was far toe 
great to be disguised. He and Tom were all I had to 
love in this hemisphere ; and though I ought to have 
remembered that his hatred of a scene was strong 
enough to make him run away from me, I expressed it 
in no measured terms. 

At first he was alarmed, then he held me from him 
with an air of great surprise, and as I hung about him 
he put his hand on my head, and said kindly, ‘ Why, 
you are but a little creature, my dear; you look like a 
child still — shall we never make a woman of you ? ’ 

‘ Oh,’ I thought, ‘ what a cruel chance that I look so 
young.’ Tears choked me, I could not beg him to take 
me with him ; and Mrs. Bell now entering, 1 felt ’my 
vehemence subside ; habitual decorum prevailed ; I 
dried my eyes, and felt, with aching distress of mind, 
that he had not come to take me away. 

They talked on commonplace themes, my growth, 
my progress, the crops, the weather. Uncle Rollin 
looked shy, and so great was the agitation of my mind 
that I could not summon courage to ask before Mrs. 
Bell whether I might leave school ; and I believe he 
would actually have gone away again without hearing 
my voice any more if in stooping to kiss me he had not 
i<ud — 


OFF THE 8EELLI08. 


98 


‘Well, my dear, is there anything you want?* 

‘ Oh yes, uncle,’ I exclaimed. 

‘ My dear,’ expostulated Mrs. Bell, ‘ 1 am surprised. 
Is this the decorum I expect from Miss Graham ? ’ 

‘There is something,’ I repeated hardly knowing 
what I said, ‘ oh there is something that I want so 
much.’ He had told me in his letter that he had put 
into Harwich because the ‘ Curlew ’ wanted something 
done to her, and I supposed, erroneously as it appeared 
afterwards, that he was living on board the other ves- 
sel ; so when he repeated kindly, ‘ W ell, you have 
never asked a favor of me all these years, so Mrs. Bell 
will excuse you, I hope — what is it ? ’ I exclaimed as 
boldly as excessive agitation would permit, ‘ I want to 
go and spend a day with you, uncle, on board the brig.’ 

‘ On board the brig ! ’ repeated Mrs . Bell in a faint 
tone of ladylike alarm. 

I was holding his hand, and rendered desperate by 
exceeding desire for only one private conversation with 
him, repeated, 

‘ Pray do, uncle — I have never been away, never been 
with you for years ! I want to hear about my brother.’ 

A ball seemed to rise in my throat, and a mist swam 
before my eyes when I said these audacious words in the 
august presence of her to whom they would, I knew, 
be so displeasing; but so much depended on them 
that I forgot for once to be afraid, and burst into a pas- 
sion of tears, while Mrs. Bell looked at me with grave 
reproof. 

Uncle Rollin meantime stood mute, overcome by 
shyness and surprise. But determined, if possible, to 
gain my point, I dried my eyes, and vehemently en- 
treated that I might go with him, saying, ‘ Uncle, you 
said I had not asked a favor all these years.’ 

‘ So I did,’ he repeated. 

‘Then will you, oh will you grant me this one? 
May I put on my bonnet and go with you for this one 
day ? ’ 

^Well — yes^ he answered slowly. And, without 
waiting to hear another word, I flew up-stairs, snatched 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


9t 

my bonnet, g Dves, and mantle from the drawer, and 
ran down equ.pped for the day in less than two minutes. 

Terror shook my limbs as, on reaching the foot of 
the stairs, I encountered my uncle, looking very hot 
and shy, and Mrs. Bell in high indignation, and with a 
peculiarly set expression of firmness about her lips. 

He seemed in a great hurry as well as in a great 
fright, and taking my hand led me hastily to the door. 
Mrs. Bell was explaining that she could not send for 
me in the evening ; my uncle only replied that it was of 
no consequence, wishing her good morning, and I heard 
the door shut after us with a thrill of incredulous joy. 

But after such a daring action as that I had com- 
mitted, came the inevitable consideration of what would 
become of me when I returned in the evening, and had 
to bear the brunt of Mrs. Bell’s anger all alone. 

So much did this thought damp my joy that I could 
not say a word, but hurried with my uncle through the 
town, down St. Matthew’s street, and even a little way 
along the Whitton road, before I remembered that we 
were leaving the river behind us. 

He was quite as much bewildered as I was ; in fact, 
we were both, as it were, running away. 

‘ Uncle,’ I ventured to say, ‘ we are not going the 
right way; we must turn and go down St. Peter’s 
street.’ 

‘ Ah, true, true,’ he replied ; and he came back with 
every appearance of perturbed feelings. 

At last we reached the bridge ; it was high-water 
1 saw, to my joy, the white boat that I remembered so 
well, and I recognized the steward, who was evidently 
lingering about, looking for Uncle Rollin. 

In three minutes we were in that boat. And now 
what good had my hardly- won holiday done me ? Of 
course I could not talk to my uncle before the sailors. 
I was not at all sure that he was pleased with me, for 
he 8(at very gravely and silently, with the tiller ropes 
in his hands, and without giving me any look of kind- 
ness or encouragement. 

We rowed past the wharves and reached the broader 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


95 


portion of the river, then we put up a sail ; but even 
with this advantage I knew that we should not reach 
Landguard fort till two o’clock, and my mind became 
distracted with anxiety as to how I was to get back 
again, and what would be said and done to punish me 
and mortify me if I did not reach home till the middle 
of the night? 

Still, not a word did my uncle say ; and aware that, 
bad as things were, I had entirely brought them on 
myself, I sat gravely before him trying to think of 
some plan by which I might return, and almost forget- 
ting that craving for information about my family which 
had lately absorbed my mind. 

At last we approached not the brig, but the ‘ Curlew : ’ 
she was radiant with fresh paint, and was lying in 
Downham Reach, evidently expecting us. 

Nothing was said to me, but I went up her side when 
my uncle did, and followed him into the chief cabin. 
Once at home in his yacht, his constraint vanished, he 
first laughed with some exultation, then kissed me 
kindly, and then taking a survey of me, said, but with 
some hesitation, that I was welcome. Dinner was 
brought in, but I, still revolving my return to Ipswich, 
sat with my bonnet on. 

‘ Come, child,’ said my uncle, ‘ have you forgotten 
your old berth ? Go and look at it.’ 

I went to my cabin. How pretty and fresh it was, 
newly fitted up with green and gold, and how little I 
cared for that. 

Mrs. Brand appeared, and seemed pleased ; till, look- 
ing at my troubled countenance, she guessed that 
something was wrong. Her old desire for something 
to do, however, induced her to ask if she might arrange 
my hair, and before it was finished, my uncle came to 
the door, and I made haste and went with him to the 
chief cabin, where, when we had seated ourselves at 
table, he again laughed exultingly, and proceeded to 
heap my plate with meat and salad. 

‘ What are you thinking of ? ’ he inquired, when he 
found that I could neither eat nor talk. 


96 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


‘Mrs. Bell,’ I answered. 

‘ I thought so, but she won’t come on board, I’ve 
put three long reaches of water between us.’ 

‘ But what will she say ? ’ 

‘ What do I care ? I shall not go to hear it, I shall 
send Brand.’ 

‘ Will you send a message then, and beg her not to 
be displeased with me?’ 

‘ Why ? it is no affair of yours.’ 

‘ If we are not at home till the middle of the night,’ 
I answered, ‘ Mrs. Bell will never forgive me.’ 

‘ Why,’ exclaimed my uncle, sitting upright in his 
chair, and staring at me, ‘ I do believe the child thinks 
she is going back again,’ 

Never shall I forget what I felt when I heard those 
remarkable words. I looked at his kind face, to be 
sure that he was not joking ; then I looked about me 
with a curious notion that I could not really be on 
board the ‘ Curlew,’ listening to the flow of the water, 
and watching the reflection of those golden wavelets 
floating on the sides, that I had thought of and dreamed 
of so long. 

‘Well,’ said Uncle Rollin, ‘can you eat your dinnei 
now?’ 

‘ No, uncle.’ 

‘ Let me have no hysterics — I hate scenes.’ 

‘So do L’ 

‘You don’t want to go back to school, do you?’ 

‘ Oh no.’ 

‘Very well, and I don’t want to take you back. 1 
came on purpose to fetch you away, but your mistress 
put me in such a fright that I could not tell her so.’ 

‘ I am going to stay here really and truly, and never 
going to see Mrs. Bell any more ? ’ 

‘Really and truly going to stay away, and never 
going to see Mrs. Bell any more, with my consent, — 
that is the exact state of the case ; and enough to say 
about it. I am angry, I want my dinner, and I want 
to see you eat yours.’ 


OFF THE BKELLiaS. 


97 


CHAPTER VIII. 

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 

The winds that will be howling at all hours, 

And are upgather’d now like sleeping flowers — 

For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 

It moves us not. — Wordsworth. 

1 TOOK up my knife and fork and began to eat m a 
dream of delight and gratitude that became sweeter 
every moment. My uncle had never looked so kind 
and venerable, the cabin seemed a gorgeous place, the 
taste of the meat was delicious — never had I eaten 
such salad! The rush of the water was music, the 
voices of the sailors overhead, their footsteps, and all 
the sounds in the vessel, came back to my recollection 
like the poetry of life waking up after a long sleep, and 
my heart danced for joy at this sudden return to home 
and freedom. 

Brand, the steward, came in with a large jam roll, 
that favorite sea pudding. 

‘Brand,’ said Uncle Rollin, ‘Miss Graham has run 
away from school.’ 

The steward looked surprised, and answered gravely, 
‘Very well, sir.’ 

‘She’s come aboard with no outfit,’ continued Uncle 
Rollin ; ‘ you must go and fetch her books, and clothes, 
and all her other stores.’ 

‘ Ay, ay, sir,’ replied the steward. 

‘Man the jolly-boat, and set off as soon as may be.’ 
Uncle Rollin then began to eat his pudding, as if he 
intended to give no further orders, but though Brand 
knew this was no time to ask questions, he did not pi*o- 
ceed to act, but stood quietly by till my uncle had 
finished his pudding. I then said to him, 

5 e 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


[)8 

‘ Will you send a note, uncle, or some directions?' 

‘ I’ll send a cheque,’ he replied, ‘ the rest you must 
manage. Fetch your wife. Brand.’ 

No sooner said than done — enter steward with his 
wife. Uncle Rollin was cutting a piece of cheese, and 
without looking up he said, ‘ Brand and Mrs. Brand.’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ said the wife, answering for both. 

‘ Miss Graham is come on board for good.’ 

‘ Glad to hear it, sir, I’m sure ; and hope you find 
yourself pretty well, Miss,’ said Mrs. Brand, though she 
had seen me before. 

‘Miss Graham’s orders in this vessel are to be 
obeyed like my own,’ he continued, ‘ in all matters that 
concern her. There now, for goodness’ sake, arrange 
the matter for yourself, Dorothea; and Brand, give me 
a glass of stout.’ 

He evidently did not mean to say another word, and 
I, blushing up to the eyes, could not make up my mind 
to give orders before him, so I said to Mrs. Brand that 
after dinner I would come and consult with her what 
had better be done, and she curtseyed and withdrew. 
When dinner was over and we were alone, Uncle Bol- 
lin took out his purse, and without a word of prepa- 
ration said to me, 

‘ I mean to allow you thirty pounds a year for your 
clothes, as I did your mother before you.’ 

While I was trying to thank him with something like 
the gratitude I felt, he counted out seven pounds ten 
shillings, rung the money on the table as if to prove 
that it was good, and said, ‘ There is your first quarter’s 
allowance.’ ^ 

I should like to have kissed him, and perhaps the ex- 
pression of my face when he rose from the table made 
him think I wished for something more, for he stop})ed 
when he had nearly reached the door, and said with a 
sigh and a little impatience of manner, ‘You will have 
the same accommodation as before, and no one is to 
enter your cabin without your permission. Have you 
anything to say? because if so, I wish to hear it at 
once and have done with it.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


99 


Something in his manner pained me keenly : it was 
that of a man who was yielding to what he considered 
a disagreeable necessity, the nature of which was 
dawning on him and depressing his spirits. 

He stood waiting for me to speak, with his head 
turned a little over his shoulder, and sighed again ; so 
1 uttered my thought. 

‘ Among other things, I wanted to ask, uncle, whether 
you had always intended me to live on board with you, 
or whether you had been surprised into consenting to 
it by what has happened to-day ? ’ 

‘ What put that into your head ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Mrs. Bell has often told me I could not expect it of 
you.’ 

‘ Ah, well, she has frequently wiitteh tc me, when I 
have hinted at taking you away, that this was not a fit 
place for a lady. Quite right ; and a trouble, — that’s 
true ; but trouble is the lot of man.’ 

So Mrs. Bell had been the cause of my staying away so 
long. How that newly discovered fact altered all my 
feelings tpwards her and towards my uncle ! At that 
early stage of the discussion I had my wits about me, 
and could be cautious ; so I answered — 

‘ It is natural that you should expect my being at 
sea with you to be a trouble. I do not doubt that it 
will be ; and if you do not mind telling me whether 
you have always intended it, I should like to know.’ 

‘ Well,’ he said, and hummed and hesitated a little, ‘ I 
had not intended it.’ 

Still he held the door-handle, and stood with his 
back to me. 

‘ Then, uncle, why have you changed your mind ? ’ 

Upon this he turned towards me, as if trying to find 
the reason. 

‘ Upon my word,’ he said, ‘ I hardly know.’ 

‘ Then perhaps it is not permanently changed ? ’ I in- 
quired. 

‘ I am not used to be questioned in this way. 
Permanently, — pemnanently ! How should I know 
whether I have changed it permanently ? ’ 


100 


OFF TEE SKELL108. 


‘ Uncle, that is the same thing as saying that yon 
have yielded to circumstances, and changed it only for 
the time being, to save trouble, and because you did 
not know what else to do with me.’ 

‘ Pooh, child, I don’t mind you. I was always fond 
of children.’ 

‘ I am a woman now, — a grown-up woman.’ 

‘ You will always be a very little one,’ he answered 
with a kind smile. 

‘Yes, but that will not interfere with my earning my 
own living.’ 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Uncle, you have taken care that I should have an 
excellent education, and, as a teacher, I can easily earn 
my living. So, if that is to be my lot, — as Mrs. Bell 
often hinted as probable, — and if you only take me 
on board for the present, knowing that it will interfere 
with your comfort to retain me, and intending to place 
me in a situation, I want to be j^repared, and then when 
the time comes I shall not be so much disappointed.’ 

‘ Gratuitous — all gratuitous suppositions,’ he an- 
swered. ‘ Women, I suppose, always have a great flow 
of words ; but I wish you were not in such a hurry to 
pour them all out at once. Let me see : you want to 
know whether I intend you to earn your bread. 
1 do not intend it, while I live or after I am dead. 
Now, what else ? Oh, whether I meant you to live 
onboard. ‘‘No” to that. I meant to board you in 
some good family ashore where you could live like 
other girls, go into society, and have some motherly 
woman to look after you. There, my plan was a vast 
deal better for you than living here with nobody to 
speak to but me and your brother, who does not want 
you, I can tell you. You might live so with eve.'y 
comfort.’ 

‘ And never see Tom, and never see you ? ’ 

‘ What do you want to see me for ? Do you mean 
to say that you should be better pleased to stay 
here ? ’ 

‘ Pleased, uncle I Why, the hope of staying only 


OFF TEE SEELLiaS, 


for a time makes me happier than I have ever been in 
my life.’ 

‘Yes, I really believe it does.’ 

‘ Do you think I have no affection for you ? ’ I ex- 
oiaiined, shocked at his surprise that I should want to 
be with him. 

A soi’t of contentment and pleasure stole over his 
foce that was comforting to see, but he answered, ‘ I 
don’t know why you shoiili!. have. People give love 
for love, and not tor money.’ 

This was a very uncompromising way of letting me 
know he felt no love for me. 

|t took me by surprise: in spite of myself I felt 
choked, and tears would run down my cheeks. I for- 
got myself, and said, sobbing, ‘People don’t always 
give love for love, — sometimes they give it for noth- 
ing.’ Ridiculous speech! as if I had not seen the 
pleasure that had stolen over his face a few minutes be- 
fore ; but I felt as if my sheet-anchor had given way, 
and my chief reason for longing to be with him was 
gone. 

He replied roughly, ^ Don’t you give it for nothing I ’ 
and I answered, sobbing, 

^ I must — I would much rather give it for nothing 
than not give it at all.’ 

‘You look too much like a child and you talk too 
much like a woman,’ he replied. ‘ I hate these discus- 
sions. What ! did I think of you all those years ? not 
at all ; but I like you well enough now. And as to 
ray money, I gave that to get rid of you when you 
were a puling child. You are not wise. Take things 
as you find them. Don’t sob so. There.’ 

He came up to me as I stood trying to check my 
crying fit, and gave me a kiss on the forehead. Ha 
seemed to have forgotten his intention of going on 
deck ; and when I had dried my eyes, and could look 
at him, I saw that his kind, handsome old face looked 
pleased and glad, till stopping short, he said, ‘ I waa 
not alluding to myself, in particular, when I advised 
you not to b^estow your regard for nothing.’ 


102 


OFF THE SKELLTOS, 


‘ No, uncle,’ I answered, forgetting myself, ‘ and what 
reason is there that I should ? ’ 

‘ The child veers round like the wind.’ 

Still he looked at me, and his countenance seemed to 
show dawning affection and pleasure. ‘ Come here,’ he 
said ; and encouraged by his manner I came and put 
my arms round his neck. 

‘Well, well,’ he said, as if speaking to himself ; ‘a 
man must take things as he finds them. I bring up a 
girl at school, and she comes on board and cries, and 
says she loves me. Women are strange creatures; 
must not be hardly dealt with. And so, after all, you 
don’t mean to love me for nothing.’ 

What was the use of arguing with him, and proving 
that this was impossible ? because I already owed him 
all the love and duty in the world. I answered instead, 
‘No, uncle, for you know you are going to love me in 
return.’ 

‘Well, that’s one way of settling the matter, cer- 
tainly,’ he said, surprised into a laugh. 

‘ So you want to stop on board with me ? ’ he con- 
tinued, when he had resumed his seat. 

‘Yes, if you please.’ 

‘ W ell, I suppose I do please ; and if you give a little 
trouble I don’t care, provided there are no scenes. 
This one is to be the first and last. I hate demonstra- 
tions and speeches.’ 

‘ I may kiss you if you go away for a few days ? ’ 

‘Yes, to be sure.’ 

‘ I don’t want to make any other demonstrations nor 
any speeches about your having provided for me, and 
how grateful I feel, and how I hope to be a daughter 
to you in your old age. I shall keep all that to my- 
self. I know it will be undutiful to mention it, though 
of course I shall feel it all the same.’ 

‘You call this keeping it to yourself, do you? You 
are the strangest creature I ever saw — not in the least 
to look at, like the shrewd young woman you evidently 
are.’ 

‘ Yes, I know I am plain. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


103 


‘Not at all; I don’t see that you are plain, though 
certainly you are no beauty. But you contrive to say 
and do what you please, in spite of me, and even while 
telling me you don’t intend it. Now, I won’t have any 
more of that ; you have said your say once. Let me 
have no more talk of gratitude.’ 

‘Very well, uncle.’ 

‘ Very well, uncle ! ’ he repeated. ‘No; I never did 
see anything so demure in my life ! When I am in the 
humor for it, and when we are alone,’ was his next 
speech, ‘ I don’t mind a little nonsense now and then.’ 

By nonsense I knew he meant any sort of evidence 
by word or act that affection was felt for him. For the 
rest, I saw he was gratified at my audacity in daring to 
thank him for his long goodness ; and I did not say, 
‘ How shall I find out when you are in the humor ? ’ for 
never was there a man whose character and whose 
wishes were more easily understood. 

The golden sunshine lay softly on the water, and the 
tide had turned, when I remembered that I ought to go 
and give directions about my possessions. 

Uncle Rollin wrote a cheque and a note, in which he 
enclosed it. I asked, not without trepidation, whether 
1 was to wiate also ; but the time was gone by, I found, 
when others would be responsible for my actions, and I 
was told to do as I pleased. So I knew I ought to 
write, and I did. 

If the recollection of Uncle Rollin’s words had not 
been fresh in my heart, if he had not told me that Mrs. 
Bell had frequently written to dissuade him from taking 
me away, I could have made it a grateful letter, for I 
was so happy, and so much inclined to see even school 
life in the best light. But now, in spite of the knowl- 
edge that my long residence, and the liberal pay given 
with me, were very important to her, providing her 
with one permanent pupil and good profit, I could not 
write gratefully; so I wrote humbly, and only at the 
end ventured to thank her for the excellent masters she 
had given me. 

The letter was most polite, and very full of apology 


104 


OFF THE f^KELLIOa. 


I said, truly enough, that I had not l^en aware in the 
morning of my uncle’s intentions respecting me, and ] 
expressed regret that I had not been able to take leave 
of her, and the masters, and my fellow pupils. 

1 went and found Mrs. Brand, gave her the letter 
and the note, asked her to go in the boat to Ipswich, 
and offer to help in packing my possessions, and also to 
buy me a railway wrapper, and a sunshade, commonly 
called an ugly. 

She was delighted with the commission, and to de- 
scribe my happiness when I came on deck and saw 
the polished expanse of water, the green wooded 
banks, the distant sea, and all the loveliness of the 
sky, would be impossible. 

Uncle Rollin was slowly pacing the deck with his 
cigar. I sat looking about me in all the bliss of 
newly-found freedom, till the sun went down in a bank 
of ruddy cloud, and the white moon rose, and shone, or 
was lost again behind the sails of brigs and schooners, 
as they came slowly past us ; then the ‘ Curlew’ herself 
began to give forth light from numberless little bits of 
glass, hardly noticed by day. From the chief cabin, 
alias the saloon, streamed forth warm rays, while from 
the cliffs on the right two light-houses continually 
gleamed and waned again. 

At last clouds came over the moon, and it became so 
dark that I only heard, not saw, the calm water wash- 
ing against the vessel’s side. 

There is nothing more delightful than to sit, as I sat 
there, on a balmy summer night, and hear the noises 
on the shore, see lighted houses, hear cattle lowing, and 
feel the peaceful isolation of the vessel. How strangely 
soon the heart accustoms itself to happiness! I did 
not feel my new position at all a difficult one. I, who 
in the morning was a humble school-girl, looking to the 
eye of Mrs. Bell for direction, and dreading the least 
disapproval, sitting in the prescribed attitude, and eat- 
ing, contrary to my wish, the prescribed quantity of 
bread and butter, — was now, in the evening, a young 
lady, with servants at my command, my time at my 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


105 


disposal, an indulgent uncle, a brother coming soon, a 
cheerful home, adventures before me ; and yet my 
heart had expanded in a moment, my spirit had sprung 
forth to meet these new hopes, and this position, so 
that it seemed a natural one. All those years of con- 
straint had not depressed me, and as I sat listening and 
looking, I repeated constantly to myself that now it 
would certainly be my own fault if I was not happy. 
Ah, what did I mean by that word happy ? not what 1 
mean now, or my thought was wrong ; but assuredly, 
BO far as that I meant the reverse of wretched, discon 
tented, listless, and incapable of rejoicing, I was right. 

This seemed a great event in my life. I prayed that 
God would make it as much for my good as it certainly 
was for my pleasure, and I thought long and earnestly 
about the subject of a sermon that, singularly enough, 
I had heard the Sunday before : it was on discipline. 
I had thought at the time of the long discipline of school 
that I was subject to, and wished it was over; but now 
I felt for the first time some meaning in that familiar 
phrase, ‘The discipline of li/e.' The outward disci- 
pline of school was indeed over, and the mystery hith- 
erto unknown, life in its fullest meaning, and the 
discipline of life, were to begin. 

I was so exultant, so exquisitely happy, that after 
awhile came a reaction, and I was afraid — a sort of 
vague fear that such a blissful hour would not often 
revisit me took possession of my mind, and I listened 
to the far-off break of the waves, and the slipping of 
river-water past me to swell them, with a consciousness 
that, literally as well as metaphorically, my life had 
been passed with the quiet river, and now I was to go 
forth upon the changeful sea. 

At last my uncle paced by me, humming a tune ; and 
I felt that now my hardly-earned musical knowledge 
would be of some use. I could at least sing correctly, 
though my voice was not at all powerful ; so as he passed 
near I took up the tune rather in a low voice, to see 
whether it would be agreeable to him. He sto])ped, 
evidently listening ; I went on, and he began to beat 
6 * 


106 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


time softly. When I had done he said, but not as if 
addressing me, ‘Yes, yes, a piano must be got for her. 
The girl will be lost without one.’ And he went on 
with his walk, singing more loudly than before. 

After the labor and the money that had been ex- 
pended on my music, I was glad to find that he did not 
mean it never to be of use to him, for he loved music, 
and it was the only thing he had made a point of in 
my education, excepting religious instruction. 

Brand and Mrs. Brand did not come that night, so at 
last I went to bed, went to my berth, which I was sur- 
prised to find ready for me, and also to observe that 
the other berths were made up with snow-white sheets 
and counterpanes. 

I asked my uncle in the morning why this was. He 
replied that Tom had intended to bring Mr. and Mrs. 
Mompesson on board, with two of their children, but 
that they had persuaded him to spend a short time with 
them first. And now they would not come for some 
weeks. My heart leaped with joy. All sorts of de- 
lightful things were happening together, and now also 
seemed to be a convenient time for asking some ques- 
tions respecting my father and Amy, things that I had 
longed to know for years. 

They were going on as usual, said Uncle Rollin; 
nothing particular had happened. 

‘ Then would they soon come home ? ’ 

‘No, child, the debts are not half paid, though they 
live with all economy.’ 

I asked, since my father was never extravagant, how 
he happened to get into debt. 

‘Child, he was security for a rascal who made off 
with ten thousand pounds. It is better you should 
know nothing about that, if your mother did not tell 
you.’ 

‘ She never said a word about it.’ 

‘ She was a good woman. I have helped them ; they 
gave up everything, and what could they do more ? ’ 

‘ And is my father paying any of this money now ? ’ 

‘Don’t see how that is possible, but he seems con- 
tented,’ 


OFF THE 8KELL1G8. 


107 


*I have oflen, particularly the last few months, been 
very anxious to hear something more about mamma’s 
<ieath.’ 

‘ I should not have thought you would have remem- 
bered her ; you were young wAen she gave you to me. 
I hope hearing so little has not weighed on your mind/ 

‘ It never did till lately, — indeed, not till the last 
half year. I am a woman now, and did not like to 
know nothing about my nearest relations.’ 

‘Well, well,’ he said calmly and dispassionately, 
‘ your father will not get on there. I don’t expect it. 
I have lent him money which I never mean to ask for ; 
but your mother was no manager. As for your father, 
I respect him, but he has mistaken his vocation ; he is 
not fit for a bush life. However, he seems well enough 
pleased with Australia — would not come back, he says, 
on any account. Amy is a fine girl, I understand, and 
has had an offer.’ 

The first part of this speech pained me, but the latter 
part was astounding ! While I had been practising my 
music at school, my little sister, my younger sister, had 
actually been sought in marriage. Uncle Rollin was 
not in the humor to talk more, so I went to my pecul- 
iar domain, shut the door, and sat down to think. I 
shall not record all my thoughts: some I must. I 
looked at myself in the glass, and wondered what Tom 
would think of me, and what other people would think, 
and I dressed my hair several different ways, in order, 
if possible, to add a year or two to my apparent age — 
but in any style I could not make myself look more 
than fifteen, or at least, as I fondly hoped, sixteen. 

Amy had had an offer; she clearly looked like a 
woman, then. I did not yet. At school it had not 
seemed to matter what I was like; now, it certainly 
did. My height was five feet three inches — not so 
very short ; but then, as Mrs. Bell had often said, I had 
the effect of being small. I was considered to be a lit- 
tle creature, and it is of no use to argue against people’s 
impressions concerning one. I was too slender and 
girlish in figure to pass for a woman. Still I hoped 


108 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


Tom would think me tolerable. My large eyes I knew 
were not handsome in color ; it was hard to say whelliei 
they were brown or a greenish grey, — they looked 
black by candlelight. Then my hair, there was plenty 
of it, but it wanted richness of color; it was light, but 
not yellow enough to please me. I felt, in fact, that I 
was insignificant. 

I had scarcely finished my scrutiny when Mrs. Brand 
appeared, and presently my boxes were placed on the 
floor. Mrs. Brand had not seen the lady, but had heard 
a voice by which she judged that the lady was ‘m a 
way^ The voice had said, ‘Oh dear, no — tell the 
woman there is no message whatever.’ 

‘ So the next morning,’ said Mrs. Brand, ‘ I called 
according to orders. Brand and me with a cart. Some 
boxes stood in a front court before the house, and a 
housemaid opened a window up-stairs, and said we 
were to take them away.’ 

I had been dreading a letter ; so this silence, which 
was intended to intimate displeasure too great for 
words, proved a delightful relief to me. 

Mrs. Brand unpacked my boxes, lingering over them, 
as if to have something to do was a treat not to be ap- 
j)reciated unless it was long drawn out. 

She said none of my gowns excepting the best would 
stand sea air, and hinted that if I would go on shore 
the next day and buy material for dresses, she could 
make them, for she had seen the fashion-book open in a 
milliner’s window at Ipswich. 

She specified exactly what she wished me to have, 
namely, a brown holland dress trimmed with broad 
braid. I said she might buy it for me at Harwich, and 
joy thereupon lifted up her handsome features. 

She said it was probable that Tom might come on 
board that morning, and my spirits were thrown into a 
flutter at the news ; my first thought was to make my- 
self look as well as I could, and I donned my best dress, 
a neat dark blue silk. I also put on my lace collar and 
sleeves, and my little gold brooch with Tom’s hair in 
it, and while I was considering whether an impartial 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


109 


stranger would pronounce.* me to be a young woman or 
consider me a child, she was called away, and I sat 
down and felt how foolish I was to have thought that 
appearance would influence one’s brother to care more 
or less for a sister ; yet in spite of the reflection, I took 
out a little ring that my brother had sent me, and 
added it to my .adornments. 

As I drew the ring on to my finger, suddenly I heard 
a voice that thrilled me to my very heart. ‘ What is 
it that you call leeway ? ’ said the voice. I held my 
breath; two persons were descending. The second 
answered, ‘ Oh, it is caused by the pressure of the wind 
on the weather side of a vessel. In consequence of 
which, though her head may be at a certain point ot 
the compass, the true course made will be half a point, 
or a point to leeward of that, according to circum- 
stances.’ 

I did not know the second voice, but the first was 
the long-lost music of childhood awakened for me 
again. 

‘ Ah, 1 see,’ it answered ; ‘ on the lee side she has 
only the pressure of the water, but on th% weather side 
.there is the pressure both of water and of wind.’ 

They had reached the last step, and I could not 
move from the glass before which I was standing. I 
heard Uncle Rollin meet them; my name was men- 
tioned, and two gentlemen entered my open door. 

In a whirl of confused joy and trepidation, I came 
to meet them, and at the first glance both seemed to 
be strangers. One stood back, the other smiled ; this 
smile was all that was left of Mr, Mompesson. 

I saw a stout man with grey hair, and a somewhat 
careworn face. He actually introduced himself, as if 
he thought I had forgotten his existence. ‘ I am glad 
to see you,’ he said, kindly taking my hand. ‘You and 
I were great friends some years ago, but you are 
grown out of my knowledge, as I have passed from 
your memory.’ I had not time to contradict him, a 
young man stood by who was looking at me. Could 
it be Tom? Yes, it certainly was, for he kissed me, 


no 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


and then we mutually drew back and looked at each 
other. 

Wliat he saw he told me frankly enough afterwards. 
I saw a strongly-built young man with heavy features, 
a massive forehead, and a peculiarly dark complexion, 
whicli made his grey eyes look altogether too light to be 
in keeping with his general hue and his curly brown 
hair. 

But these eyes were, very strange ones; they were so 
piercing, so bright, and so intellectual, that the words 
clear, sparkling, brilliant, or any other words usually 
applied to eyes, would not describe them at all : their 
lustre seemed to shoot out from within, and, in short, 
they reminded me of a cat’s eye seen in the dusk. 

Mr. Mompesson was still holding my hand when Tom 
kissed me, and I felt more at ease with him than with 
my brother, partly, no doubt, because less depended on 
his being pleased with me, partly because Tom was not 
in the least the kind of person whom I had expected to 
see. He had plain features, but I admired the striking 
peculiarity of his eyes, the air with which he held his 
head, and the sensitive changefulness of his expres- 
sion. 

He was no more at ease than myself, and soon took 
Mr. Mompesson away to show him the vessel, at the 
same time inviting me to put on my hat and follow 
them. Instead of that I sat down on the settee, which, 
as of old, ran round the cabin in front of the berths, 
and covered my eyes with my hands, listening in my 
heart to the old voice that I had loved so much, and 
thinking over this new brother, who had scarcely a 
trace about him of the well-remembered past. 

W e dined at four. The dinner was rather uncomfor- 
table, for Tom and I could not possibly help looking at 
one another, and Uncle Rollin would talk to Mr. Moin- 
pcsson about navigation, a subject that he evidently 
did not in the least understand. I knew that he would 
rather talk to Tom, so I tried to release him by direct- 
ing my uncle’s learned remarks to myself Navigation 
was his hobby, — the only subject on which lie was al- 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


Ill 


ways willing to discourse when he had been asked a ques- 
tion about it, and this Mr. Mompesson had rashly done. 

He happened to be saying that it was a very common 
thing to load a vessel so that her keel was lower abaft. 
Mr. Mompesson looked as if he did not know what 
this information meant ; no more did I, but, bent on 
releasing him, I boldly asked my uncle why ? 

He looked both surprised and gratified, and no doubt 
thought I had been an intelligent listener to the pre- 
vious remarks; so he proceeded to tell me that this 
mode of loading, by raising part of the bow out of the 
water, diminished the gripe of the ship forward. 

Tom and Mr. Mompesson were now talking together, 
and as I did not in the least understand what he meant 
by gripe, I only answered, ‘Oh,’ as if satisfied, but he 
would go on, explaining that thus it improved her 
steerage. 

‘ I will give you a reason,’ he continued, ‘ for trim- 
ming a ship more by the stern : — suppose she carries 
too much weather helm, that is, she comes up into the 
wind too much ; in such a case you put more weights 
aft.’ 

I had a very hazy notion of what he meant, but no 
doubt he thought he was making his meaning plain, for 
he presently went on to tell me that thus by making 
the bows lighter, the headsails had increased power of 
keeping her off the wind ; ‘ also, as I might easily see, 
it diminished the strain on the rudder.’ 

Easily see it indeed ! I saw nothing of the kind. 

‘ What is a headsail?’ I next asked ; and Uncle Rol- 
lin and Brand, who was. waiting at table, both looked 
at me with surprise. Tom however came to the rescue 
by saying, ‘We call all sails hoisted on the bowsprit 
headsails^ Tom and Mr. Mompesson then began to 
talk again, but Uncle Rollin sat gravely silent, and I 
am afraid matters were made worse by my exclaiming, 
with ill-timed exultation, ‘ Well, now I know something? 

‘ Little enough,’ he answered gruffly and almost with 
a surly tone. 

It was especially unlucky for me that this sea talk 


112 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


should have come up during the first days of my so- 
journ on board; for, as a rule, they did not indulge in 
it, and I have often been on board when for a week to- 
gether I should hardly have known by their conversa- 
tion that we were not on shore. 

After this bad beginning, however, I said that if he 
pleased I should be very glad to learn something about 
the uses of different sails, and, in short, to learn some- 
thing of the elements of navigation ; whereupon his brow 
cleared, and he replied that he thought it highly desir- 
able. Still I could see that either my ignorance or my 
apparent curiosity had offended him, and he did not 
quite recover his good humor while I stayed at the 
table, which was not long after the cloth was with- 
drawn. 

It was such a lovely evening that I put on my hat 
and took my work-box on deck with me. I had not 
been sitting there long when Uncle Rollin came and 
stood before me. It was about six o’clock, and the 
tide was coming in. 

^ If you are so fond of navigation,’ he observed rather 
gruffly, ‘it is a strange thing that you did not learn 
something of it at school. I never denied you masters 
for anything you had a fancy for.’ 

I was certain that be would find out the truth if I 
did not forthwith tell it, so no particular courage was 
displayed in my reply — 

‘ I am not at all fond of navigation. I can’t bear it.’ 

‘ Then why do you want to learn it ? ’ 

‘ Why, uncle, partly to please you.’ 

‘ Humph ! do you expect me to teach it you after tell* 
ing me that ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, for I was obliged to tell you, because you 
asked me.’ 

‘ So you think I take pleasure in making people do 
what they “ can’t bear.” ’ 

‘No, but I have no right to dislike navigation, and 1 
am certainly going to like it. I always do like things 
when I have learned them a little while.’ 

‘ I shall not teach it you.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


113 


* Then, uncle, will you be so kind as to show me the 
uioper books, that I may learn it by myself?’ 

‘Pooh.’ 

‘ Besides, there is another thing that I did not think 
of at first. I see that learning navigation will be 
necessary for me, or when Tom and you are talking 
together I shall not understand what you say.’ 

‘ I don’t see that it is so necessary, not so particularly 
necessary, for a girl to learn navigation, but if you 
must learn it — ahem — if you are bent on learning 
it — ’ 

‘ Oh yes, I certainly shall.’ 

‘Well, 1 will see about it. If you must learn you 
must have a teacher, and in that case I should not 
mind instructing you. I taught Tom — a very apt 
scholar he was ; it seemed no trouble to him, and I 
daresay you will learn as well as he did, for you are 
quite as queer.’ 

‘ Am I queer ? do you really think so, uncle ? ’ 

‘Yes, really and truly, I think you are the queerest 
little girl I ever saw ; but you need not look so gi*ave, 
for you don’t care about it.’ 

‘Yes, I care a little.’ 

‘But you are very well dressed to-day. I should 
like to see you always well dressed. bTonsense, child I 
never mind what I said.’ 

‘ I don’t mind your thinking me queer, uncle, because 
you care for me.’ 

‘Oh, Ido, do I?’ 

‘Of course; we agreed about that yesterday. But 
It will be very awkward for me if people think so who 
do not like me.’ 

‘ What will happen then ? ’ 

‘ Oh, I suppose they will not wish for my acquaint 
tance ; not choose to talk to me ; overlook me, and for- 
get me.’ 

Uncle Rollin had seemed amused and pleased during 
our discourse; once or twice he had laughed, and 
though it was at me I liked it: there was something 
cordial in it, and he said I was queer in a way which 

H 


114 


OFF THE S KELL] 08 


shoAV^ed that quality to be what he liked in me But 
to thig last remark he made a reply which was so dif- 
ferent from anything I should have expected of him 
that I could hardly believe what I heard. 

‘You are very much mistaken,’ were his words; 
there are some little women that are insignificant, 
and nobody takes the least notice of them. The}' are 
not big enough to be handsome ; they are not witty iK>r 
clever, and so they get overlooked. Nobody falls in 
love with them, and nobody dislikes them. That sort 
of thing won’t happen to you, because, as I tell } ou, 
you are a queer little girl to talk to. You say different 
things from other people, and you say them in an odd kind 
of way. You will not be overlooked, child, but always 
either loved or disliked. I don’t consider you near so 
plain as Tom, though rather like him about the eyes 
and eyebrows.’ 

Then my uncle ceased, and I was so much surprised, 
not so much at what he said, as at his saying it, that I 
had no answer ready, and kept reflecting on the singu- 
lar way in which I had been mistaken about him. I 
wondered whether he ever at long intervals made such 
speeches to other people, and whether he would often 
talk thus to me. I thought to myself that if a charac- 
ter in a book, which had been drawn like my former 
notion e of him, had suddenly been made to utter the 
above thoughts I should have considered the said book 
to be out of keeping, and false to nature ; for nothing 
was more surprising to me than to perceive that he 
speculated on human character, and noticed the effect 
of different peculiarities. 

I did not see Mr. Mompesson again till it was nearly 
dusk, when he came on deck with Torn, and began, as 
I had hoped he Avould, to talk of old times. 

But, alas ! we were to sail at high tide, which was 
shortly after eight o’clock. We had scarcely got under 
weigh when I began to feel ill, and when we reached 
the ‘ rolling ground,’ I w;as obliged to go below and lie 
down in ray berth. Mrs. Brand was sure I should be 
much better on deck, but I instinctively hid myself and 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


115 


my miseries lest this sickness should interfere with my 
prospects and induce my uncle and brother to send me 
ashore again. 

We were to put Mr. Mompesson on shore at Lul* 
worth cove, and after that we were bound for the west 
coast of Ireland. If the weather promised well we 
should not leave the yacht, Mrs. Brand told me, but if 
not, we should land, make the journey through Eng- 
land, crossing to Dublin and going through Ireland at 
our leisure, while a man who was called the captain of 
the yacht brought her round to Valencia. 

‘ Then I hope it will blow a gale,’ I said, for I sorely 
longed to land. 

‘ No, ma’am,’ she answered, ‘ the best thing will be to 
get used to wind and rough weather, at least, if y’’ou 
wish to sail with Mr. Graham.’ 

So I endured as well as I could, and was right glad 
when we reached our destination, but I only got on 
deck a few minutes before Mr. Mompesson landed. 

‘ Is the weather likely to be fine ? ’ I asked. 

‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘splendid.’ 

I could not forbear a sigh, but on the other hand, it 
was a consolation to know that after our cruise on the 
west coast of Ireland, the Mompessons with all the 
children were to come on board for a month. They 
were all good sailors, and were to have my cabin, which 
was already fitted up for them with six berths. I was 
to have a 23retty little state-room, and I thought I shoukl 
surely be well by that time and enjoy their company. 


116 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


CHAPTER IX. 

They are faint-hearted; there is sorrow on the sea.* — .Ter. xlix. 23. 

W E lay at anchor that night in' Portland roads, 
and I enjoyed the calm. In the morning the 
sea was smooth, and, to my delight, the sick- 
ness did not return. Miserable as it had been, it had 
not for a moment made me forget my happy position, 
or wish myself on shore again. 

Tom and I spent part of the next morning together, 
lie was amused, I think, at my return, but I observed 
that if I mentioned Ipswich or my school life it did not 
excite the least interest, but rather seemed to tease 
him. He naturally could not feel that absorbing inter- 
est in me and my concerns that I did in his, and I 
wished then, and do now, to remember that he had 
passed several happy years without me, but my years 
had not been happy without him : no new interest had 
sprung up to supply his place, no present joy or adven- 
ture to blot out the memory of the past ; this was one 
great reason why I remembered him and my uncle so 
keenly and lovingly. I know that we partly remember 
the absent because we want them — if their places are 
fully supplied, after a time it is not natural that we can 
want them so much, and reason ought to make us con- 
sent to their being comfortable and happy without us, if 
they can. 

In the pleasant weather of that day Tom proposed 
that we should arrange the after cabin so as to hold my 
possessions comfortably and yet retain many of his. 

It was a delightful and luxurious room, this cabin. 
In one of the berths shelves had been fitted, to hold 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


117 


Tom’s books. The ordinary contrivances for keeping 
these steady during a voyage caused much admiration 
in my mind ; so did his beautiful telescope and his scien- 
tific instruments. He emptied as many lockers for me 
as I had any use for, and I found that he had a consid- 
erable command of money, for he spoke of the books 
he bought, and of his subscription to more than one 
London library, as if he could do anything he chose 
and have anything he wished for. I did not, however, 
venture to ask him about this, for he did not invite con- 
fidence ; and I felt with him, as I have done with Mr. 
Mompesson, that I was a stranger to him, though he 
was well known to me. 

When he had made a place for my possessions, he 
took arway those of his own that had been displaced, 
and I, knowing that we were bound for the Great 
Skellig, went to the chief cabin, where most of my 
brother’s books were kept, and privately made myself 
fully acquainted with the hard-hearted monster, an iso- 
lated rock standing about ten miles out to sea, off the 
south-west coast of Kerry. 

My heart exulted as I read, and I longed for calm, 
that I might see it well. How grand, how sublime to 
approach this the extreme point of British land, this 
mighty pinnacle nearly a thousand feet high, shooting 
up alone from the abyss of waters, and to know that in 
a storm the vast heaving waves of the Atlantic flung 
themselves heavily over ledges that are one hundred 
and seventy feet above their level during a calm, and 
wet the rock with their powdering spray four hundred 
feet higher still, charging it and roaring and foaming 
against it with a power and fury inconceivable ! 

The Lesser Skellig, too, I wished to see, for I found it 
was one of the breeding places of the gannet, and that 
millions of young birds at that time of the year would 
be squatting on it, incased in their thick down, and 
screaming for fi*esh fish to their laborious parents. 

That was a delightful day ; and if a little breeze had 
not sprung up the next morning, and sent me to my 
berth, making me doubt whether when the rocks ap 


118 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


peared I should be able to sit up and look at them, 1 
should have been as hap])y as youth, health, and a cleai 
conscience can make one in this sublunary sphere. 

This was a most dismal attack, but hi^^^pily it was 
the last I ever suffered from. There had been a stiff 
breeze, and all in our favor, I was told ; and after what 
seemed a long time, I felt not only that I was much bet- 
ter, but that the water was becoming every quarter of 
an hour more smooth. I could soon sit up, and though 
faint for want of food, I was not giddy, and when 
Mrs. Brand had dressed me I crept on deck and found 
the water all lulled and hardly moving against the bows. 
We were in the midst of a sea fog, and everything was 
muffled and still. We were about sixty miles out to 
sea, as Mrs. Brand told me, and what wind there had 
been when it died away was almost due south. 

She thought it was likely to be calm all night, and 
told me that while the fog lasted we should not make 
for the shore, the coast being very dangerous. I asked 
her, while eating a good meal of meat and bread on deck, 
how fast we were going, and she laughed and replied, 
'Not a quarter of a knot an hour.’ My uncle and 
Tom were sitting at wine, for they had dined. It was 
about six o’clock, and though the fog was so thick that 
I could not see the top of the mainsail, I felt the air 
oj»pressively warm. 

When my uncle and Tom came on deck they were 
very kind in their congratulations, and stimulated me 
in my efforts to look and talk as if nothing had hap- 
pened, by saying that if this sickness had lasted 
another day it would really have been necessary to put 
me on shore. 

I declared myself to be quite well, and so I felt; 
but any one might have felt well then, for the yacht 
was almost as still as a house. 

Before sunset the fog cleared off sufficiently to show 
> fi a vast flock of white terns flying over us, tlieir feet 
stretched out and their heads hanging so low, that we 
expected them every moment to overbalance them- 
selves and come tumbling down. They did not how- 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


119 


ever, but fled on until the sun went down, and then 
we still heard their shrill ciies overhead, as they flew 
landward. 

Then the mist seemed to come about us again, and 
when after a sociable tea I came on deck, it was so 
dusk and damp, that Tom advised me to go below to 
my berth. Not very bad advice, for I was tired and 
sleepy. I went below, intending to lie down, but only 
for an hour, and come on deck again, but had scarcely 
laid my head on the pillow when I fell very fast asleep, 
and slept some time, probably until within an hour of 
midnight. 

In a dream that was a rapture of conscious rest, and 
which concerned imaginary cups of cofiee and bread 
and butter, I slept most quietly until I was suddenly 
awakened by a violent and tremendous noise on deck. 
I started up in my berth, and instantly obseiwed that 
the cabin lamp was lighted, and that Mrs. Brand, who 
had been sitting under it reading, had put down her 
book and quickly opened the door. Just as I was 
about to call her, her skirts disappeared as she shut it 
behind her. 

It was not nearly so calm now as when I had fallen 
asleep, and I felt that the whole vessel was in commo- 
tion. First I thought we must be shortening sail, next 
I thought I heard something about lowering a boat. 

I was not alarmed at this, but still sat up to listen. 
The helm seemed to have been violently put about. 
That was not surprising, if it was the case, but we were 
sixty miles out at sea. What could they want with a 
boat? 

Yes, in less than a minute I felt sure something was 
the matter, and the stamping above, the shouting and 
dragging of ropes, so distracted me that I sprang from 
my berth, and slipped my feet into my shoeb, for other- 
wise I was completely dressed. I knew that any need- 
less alarm on my part would irritate my uncle ; but 
Ignorant as I was of what difierent noises portended, I 
could nott keep below, but, softly opening my cabin 
door, I stole a step or two up the companion, and di- 


120 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


rected my eyes upward among the rigging and tlw 
overhanging stars. 

These last were visible, but looked watery through 
the remains of the mist. I crept softly up to the top 
step of the companion, where Mrs. Brand was standing, 
and would have passed her, but the sailors were in 
every part of the yacht, lowering the foresail and 
heaving her to. Long ropes were being trailed along, 
and Brand as he passed exclaimed to his wife, ‘ Don’t 
let our young lady step on deck ; she would put her 
foot on some of the ropes to a certainty, and get thrown 
down.’ 

‘ What is it ? ’ I exclaimed ; ‘ what can it be ? ’ 

She pointed with her finger, and as the yacht swung 
round she said, ‘ Look there, ma’am, look ! ’ 

As she spoke two strange objects came into my view. 
One was a great pale moon, sickly and white, hanging 
and seeming to brood over the horizon ; the other, which 
looked about the same size, was red and seemed to lie 
close at her side. It was not round, but looked blotted 
and blurred in the mist. Could it be a meteor ? a light- 
house ? Whatever it was, it was the cause of the com- 
motion which had been so intense, and which now 
seemed to be already subsiding. I had heard the men 
called up not three minutes before, and now two ooats 
were already lowered, and Tom was in command of 
the loremost. I heard his voice coming from the water, 
and no one prevented me now from rushing to the side 
to look over, turning my back on the moon and her 
lurid companion. Though the night was not dark I 
could not discern the boats; and after straining my 
eyes into the mist, I observed that it was rapidly melt- 
ing away, and rolling on as well as rolling together, so 
that spaces of water here and there were clear, and 
moonlight glittered on them. The binnacle light glared 
in my uncle’s face as he stooped over it. I heard Brand 
whisper to his wife that he had taken charge of the 
yacht, and I did not dare to speak to him, though what 
It might be that alarmed them I could not tell. 

It was as it seemed but a moment that I had stared 


OFF THE SKFLLI08. 


121 


out into the mist, looking for the boats with still sleepy 
eyes ; then, as the sailors that were left tramped back 
to the fore part of the yacht, I turned again. The mist 
had shaken itself and rolled on before a light air that 
was coming. I saw two great pathways now lying 
along the waters ; one was silver white, the pathway of 
the wan moon, the other was blood-red and angry, and 
a burning vessel lay at her head. 

Oh, that sight ! can I ever forget it ? The fire was 
spurting from every crevice of the black hull, her great 
main-mast was gone, the mizzen-mast lay with several 
great white sails surging about in the water, and she 
was dragging it along with her. The foremast only 
stood, and its rigging and sails had not yet caught. A 
dead silence had succeeded now to the commotion in 
the vessel ; men were standing stock-still, perhaps wait- 
ing for their orders, and my uncle’s were the only eyes 
that were not strained to follow the leaping and dazzling 
sjjires. 

Every moment we approached. Now the first waft 
of the smoke came in our faces, now we could hear a 
cracking and rending, the creak and shiver, and the 
peculiar roaring noise made by a mastering fire. 

‘A full-rigged ship,’ I heard Brand whisper to his 
wife. ‘ Eleven hundred tons at the least.’ 

‘ Merciful heaven ! ’ she whispered in reply. ‘ I hope 
she won’t blow up. Anyhow, I thank the Lord we’ve 
got Master in command himself.’ 

I never saw anything like the horrible beauty of that 
red light. It added tenfold to the terror of the scene 
to see her coming on so majestically, dragging with 
her broken spars and great yards and sprawling sails. 
She looked like some splendid live creature in distress, 
and rocked now a good deal in the water, for every 
moment the wind seemed to rise, bringing up a long 
swell with it. 

The moon went down, and in a few minutes the ma- 
jestic ship supplied all the light to the dark sky and 
black water. I saw the two little dark boats nearing 
her ; knew that my brother was in the foremost, and 

6 


122 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


shook with fear, and cried to God to take care of him , 
but while I and all gazed in awful silence on the sailing 
ship, the flames, bursting through the deck in a new 
place, climbed up the fore-rigging, and in one single 
leap, as if they had been living things, they were licking 
tlie sails ofi* the ropes, and, shooting higher than her 
topsails, they spread themselves out like quivering fans. 
I saw every sail that was left in an instant batlied in 
flames; a second burst came raging up from below^ 
blackening and shrivelling everything before it; then 
I saw the weltering fire run down again, and still the 
wreck, plunging her bows in the water, came rocking 
on and on. 

‘ How near does our old man mean go ? ’ whispered 
Mrs. Brand ; and almost at that instant I observed that 
lie had given some order to the man at the helm, and 
1 could distinctly hear a murmur of satisfaction ; then 
almost directly a cry of horror rose — we were very 
near her, and while the water hissed with strange dis- 
tinctness, and steamed in her wake, her blazing foremast 
fell over the side, plunging with a tremendous crash 
into the sea, sending up dangerous showers of sparks 
and burning bits of sail-cloth, and covering our decks 
with falling tinder. 

The black water took in and quenched all that blazing 
top-hamper, and still the awful hissing was audible, till 
suddenly, as we seemed to be sheering ofi* from her, 
there was a thunderous roll that sounded like the 
lireaking of her mighty heart, and still glorious in beauty 
she plunged head foremost, and went down blazing into 
(he desolate sea. 

In one instant that raging glow and all the fierce illu- 
mination of the fire were gone ; darkness had settled 
on the face of the deep. I saw a few lighted spars 
floating about, that was all, and I smelt the fire and felt 
the hot smoke rushing past my face as the only evidence 
that this was not a dream. Oh ! the misery of the next 
half-hour! The boats, when that ill-fated ship went 
down, piust, I knew, have been very near her. Had 
they been sucked in? Had they been overturned, oi 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


123 


had they been so blessed as to be saved and to save some 
of the wretched passengers and crew ? Of all persons 
in the yacht then, perhaps I suffered most. I Avas the 
most ignorant ; I had no one to speak to ; for Mrs. Brand, 
perhaps lest I should question her, had retreated, and 
I could not think of addressing my uncle ; he had plenty 
on his mind and on his hands. I could only observe the 
activity of others by the light of the many lanterns which 
were now hung out from various parts of the rigging, 
and hope that we should soon find the boats, though 
every light hung up seemed to increase the darkness, 
and make us more unable to see anything beyond the 
bounds of the yacht. 

At last. Brand standing near me again, I said, ‘O 
Brand ! cannot we go nearer the place where that ship 
sunk ? Perhaps some poor creatures may be floating on 
the waters still.’ 

‘ Ma’am,’ he replied, ‘ we are sailing now as nigh as 
may be over the very spot where she went down ; but 
you have no call to be frightened ; everything has been 
done that can be done. W e hove to directly we sighted 
her.’ 

‘Yes,’ I said; ‘but what good could that do?’ 

‘ Why, ma’am,’ he replied, ‘ we could not have lowered 
the boats without that ; and then, you know, when they 
were off we filled, and stood in as nigh as we dared.’ 

‘ Then where are the boats ? ’ I inquired. 

‘ God knows, ma’am.’ 

‘ And what are these lights for ? Every one you put 
up makes it harder to see anything. How are we to 
find them ? ’ 

‘We have no call to find them,’ he replied ; ‘ we want 
them to find us. Most likely there are other boats about, 
besides our own, boats from the ship — we want to make 
ourselves as conspicuous as we can. At least, I reckon 
that is why Master has ordered all these lights out.’ 

‘ And why cannot we pick up any of the poor creatures 
that may hav^e been on board ? Surely we could have 
heard their cries, and could now — we are not half a 
quarter of a mile from her.’ 


124 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


‘No, ma’am; nothing like that distance — not half 
tliat distance ; that’s why our people think she may 
have been deserted.’ 

Tiie steward passed on, and I covered my face \vith 
my hands and moaned in the misery of my heart Ohl 
my only brother ! had I really lost him so ? 

I listened. The silence about me was so intense that 
I knew there was much anxiety felt; every face as it 
passed under a lantern had a restless and yet awe-struck 
look; my uncle’s, when he bent over the illuminated 
compass, did not at all reassure me. 

But such a misfortune as I had dreaded, such a terri- 
ble blow, we were to be spared. I got up again, gazed 
out over the dark water and longed for the dawn. 
Something better than dawn was destined to meet my 
eyes; between us and a spar that still glowed, two 
dark objects stood suddenly — a boat and black figures 
and moving oars, another behind her. 

I shall never forget with what a thrill of ioy I heard 
our people cheer. In ten minutes we could hear the 
stroke of their oars, and directly after Tom was on 
deck and his crew with him. 

‘ God bless you ! ’ said my uncle to Tom ; ‘ anybody 
saved ? ’ 

‘ One,’ said Tom : ‘ only one, sir.’ 

My so great that I stood motionless outside 

the little crowd of the boats’ crews and the ship’s com- 
pany until two of them approaching, bearing some- 
thing heavy between them, brushed past me and laid 
their burden almost at my feet. 

It was covered with a cloak, and was just where a 
lantern shed light on it. I was stooping to withdraw 
the cloak and see whether I could do anything for the 
poor sufferer beneath, when Tom put his arm through 
mine and drew me back gently, but with so much de- 
termination that I was obliged to yield, and he led me 
down to my cabin. 

I felt shocked and almost indignant to think that he 
should suppose I had not nerve to look on a fellow- 
creature in distress ; but when I asked if the man was 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


125 


dying, he said, ‘No, but very drunk; do not waste 
your sympathy on him. Come, do something for me. 
I am thirsty and nearly choked with smoke. Is there 
any water here ? ’ 

I gave him some, and my uncle presently coming 
down, I followed them into the chief cabin, and lis- 
tened to an earnest discussion between them as to 
what ought to be done. 

Tom said the vessel had evidently been deserted 
some time, that her cargo was cotton, which accounted 
for the enormous conflagration, and he urged that the 
yacht should be taken into the nearest port to ascer- 
tain whether this drunken fellow’s tale was true. 

He had, when first picked up, been able to talk, and 
I gathered from Tom’s account that he had crawled 
out on the bowsprit, and there had lain for some hours. 
‘ As we cautiously approached the ship,’ Tom said, 
‘ we heard some one shouting, and came as near as we 
dared. This man was lying out on the bowsprit, and 
we called out to him to lower himself down to the 
water, when we would pick him up. 

‘ It was a touch-and-go business for us, but I never 
saw a fellow perform such a feat as he did — it was 
like the trick of a tight-rope dancer. He knew we 
should have to cross right under her bows, and he took 
a rope in his hand and sprung with it, at one leap, to 
the water, let go, and struck out for us. He scarcely 
delayed us three seconds, but I was truly glad when we 
got clear away from the ship’s course, for though the 
mast went astern directly, it fell first over the very 
spot where we had crossed.’ 

‘Yet you say he was drunk?’ 

‘Yes; and when we picked him up he had a half- 
emptied rum-bottle in his bosom.’ 

After this, seeing something in the ship’s wake, but 
a good way off*, that looked like a raft, they had gone 
in search of it, but found nothing alive on it nor on 
any of the several spars and planks that they had ex- 
amined. 

The man when first picked up had been sobered by 


126 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


the shock, and had told them that the fire had been 
discovered about sunrise, steam and smoke issuing 
from the cotton in the hold ; that at first the captain 
had hoped to get it under, but about eight o’clock he 
had had the hatches battened down, and had ordered 
them to hoist out all the boats and stock them in case of 
need. This proved in course of time to be quite a false 
account, and even then Tom was not satisfied with it. 

What followed, and why he did not go off in one of 
these boats, this man could not or would not tell, but 
tliat the boats were safely lowered, and that all the 
crew, the passengers, and the captain put off in them 
he affirmed several times. This account robbed the 
recollection of the burning ship of half its horrors, and 
when my uncle and Tom withdrew, feeling very weary, 
I went to my berth, and in spite of the past excitement 
slept until high day. 

Mrs. Brand woke me at last with her usual dismal 
face. She gave me some tea and asked if I would rise. 

The water was fizzing past us at a very unusual 
rate. I asked if we had reached Valencia. She said 
we had, and were leaving it again. Master having 
landed, and been an hour on shore. There is a coast- 
guard station, it seems, at Valencia, and there he found 
that the drunken man’s tale was partly true, for one of 
the boats — the jolly-boat, containing the second mate, 
and twenty-two of the ship’s crew, as well as several 
steerage passengers — had entered the harbor about an 
hour fefore we did. ‘ And there they were,’ she said, 

‘ sitting with the coast-guardmen, and made welcome 
to the best of everything — just like the Irish horsepi- 
tality.’ 

She further said my uncle did not at all like the 
account these men gave of themselves, nor could he 
make out why they had parted company with the other 
boat, for this, by admission of one of them, was before 
the fog came on. Moreover, one of the passengers had 
said he doubted whether there was more than one boat 
— he feared that what the remaining people were on 
was very little better than a raft. 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


127 


♦And wbat made him look for them here?’ I asked. 

‘It is the nearest land,’ she replied; ‘and, besides, 
the wind was fair for it.’ 

‘Well,’ I answered, ‘it passes my comprehension as 
yet how the wind can take us in at such a rate as it 
must have done, and then send us out again at this 
spanking pace without changing ! ’ 

‘We have a pilot on board now,’ she replied, shirk- 
ing the question of the wind. 

I heard distant bells, and remembered that this was 
Sunday morning. 

‘ Yes, it’s Sunday morning, but for all that,’ said Mrs. 
Brand, ‘ we took a good deal of provisions on board — 
fowls and flour and pork, and what not — for we may 
fall in with these boats, and by all I can hear there are 
nearly thirty people — ’ 

‘Fall in with them? I answered; ‘surely we are 
going out on purpose to do our utmost to find them ? ’ 

‘ Certainly,’ she replied ; ‘ trust Master for that, but 
he was in hopes there might have been a tug or two 
that he might have hired to come out and cruise about 
for them likewise. There was nothing of the sort, 
however.’ 

She often called my uncle ‘ Master,’ or my master ; 
and I believe it was because she wished to express her 
opinion that he really was supreme, for she greatly dis- 
liked the young man who was called the ‘ Captain of 
the Yacht,’ and whose business it was to take charge 
of her at all times when my uncle did not care to com- 
mand himself, as well as when he was on shore. 

‘ He was nothing but the master of a coasting ves- 
sel,’ she said, while she was brushing my hair, ‘ and I 
take no ’count on him, for all he messes in his cabin by 
himself, as grand as you please.’ 

‘ But no doubt he is a good seaman,’ I observed, 
‘ or my uncle would not trust him with the yacht in 
his own absence.’ 

‘Oh! he is well enough,’ she answered, ‘but I have 
no patience with his airs ; not that he claims, though, 
to hold a candle to Master or to Mr. Graham either.^ 


128 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


So we were going out to sea to look for this boat or 
boats, and thus was to pass my first Sunday afloat, for I 
had been too ill the former Sunday to note the day. 

How sweet and how remote those bells sounded ! 1 

fancied also that I smelt hay, and rose full of hope and 
perfectly free from sickness. 

I found Tom and my uncle poring over maps and 
charts, calculating what was probably the present 
position of the boat, supposing that she had a sail and 
four oars, then supposing she had no sail, - and lastly 
supposing she had only two oars. 

I beard them argue on these complicated probabili- 
ties, discuss how far the vessel had sailed from the 
point where she was deserted by the crew, which all 
the men bad said was seventy miles west of Cape 
Clear, how long in the dead calm she had made hardly 
any way, then mark down exactly where she was when 
the wind sprung up and we found her. 

These matters all discussed, a circle was drawn on 
one of the charts, and within its imaginary bounds I 
was told the boats would be sought ; wind, tide, the 
powers of the rowers, and the known size of the boats, 
making it almost certain that there they must be. 

I asked why these boats were probably so much 
Dehind the others, and tliey said that almost every man 
who had come in was able-bodied, and could help to 
row even when they could not sail, which was during 
the three houi*s’ calm ; that they had confessed to not 
having been able to launch the long-boat, and that the 
two next largest boats were no better than our gigs, 
and would be crowded with women so as to be danger- 
ously heavy, besides having very few to row. The 
weather was very much changed ; a breeze had sprung 
up directly after the late calm, and the wind had been 
rising and freshening ever since. The air was ex- 
quisitely clear, and the sea a deep blue ; we were sail- 
ing at the rate of nearly eleven knots an hour, the 
yacht was behaving very well — she always did, they 
said, in a sti.flf breeze, and I thought my uncle seemed 
excit-ed and hopeful, but my heart ached to think of the 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


129 


foor women and children who had been all nicjht 
cramped up in little boats, and perhaps were drenched 
with spray and faint with hunger. 

It would be three hours, I was told, before we should 
Teach the edge of our circle. Accordingly, after break- 
fast the order was given to ‘rig the church,’ and all 
bands that could be spared were summoned. There is 
a strange solemnity in the prayers of a ship’s company 
at sea; on board a man-of-war I am told this is 
especially the case, but even on board the ‘ Curlew, 
and with my uncle for chaplain, I have often felt that 
no church on shore could be more solemn or have a 
more attentive congregation. 

During that first service, however, I was far too 
much excited to join with attention in the prayers — 
my heart prayed and fainted for the boat’s crew, and 
my ears were strained to catch the slightest sound from 
the lookout man ; but the prayers came to an end, the 
reading of a short sermon followed, and we knelt down 
w^hen it was over, and rose again. 

Great gravity and no impatience had characterized 
my uncle’s reading; but the instant all was over he 
clapped to the book, called for his glass, and wdiile he 
swept the horizon with it, the ‘ church ’ disappeared as 
if by magic, the wind kept still rising, and we spun on, 
bowing and bending under more sail than I could have 
thought she would bear, when Tom came up as I was 
trying to look through a glass, and said, — 

‘ Dolly, if we should fall in with the boats, are you 
ready ? ’ 

‘ Ready ? ’ 

*Why, more than half the passengers are women, 
and w^ho is to attend to them but Mrs. Brand and 
you?’ 

‘ May they come into my cabin, then ? ’ 

‘ May they ? — they must.’ 

‘ O Tom ! I will go and prepare for them.’ 

‘Yes; but you need not make any great commotion, 

I am afraid this is a wild-goose chase.’ 

‘ Is it ? What chance is there ? ’ 

GT 


130 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


‘ About as much chance as a dozen boys would s 
of finding a marble that one of them had dropped in a 
ten-acre meadow.’ 

‘ I believe they would find it, and that you will find 
the boats.’ 

‘You need not say “boats,”’ he answered. •! am 
sure there is but one, and I fear it is dreadfully 
crowded. The passengers declare there was but one ; 
and as to the finding of a marble, the boys no doubt 
would find it if they looked long enough, and when 
found it would be none the worse ; but if we cannot 
find this boat in the course of a day or so, we had much 
better not find it at all, for it is sure to be keel upward* 
Still you may go and prepare — very unlikely things 
do happen.’ 

I went below and summoned Mrs. Brand. 

‘Why, Lord,’ she said, half-whimpering with anxious 
sympathy for the sufferers, ‘ what is the use of tearing 
the things out of the berths? Mr. Graham knows that 
if the wind keeps freshening at this rate it will blow a 
gale before night ; and how is a boat like that to live 
in such a sea ? ’ 

We, however, cleared the berths, and made up beds 
in them. I brought out some of my clothes and put 
them ready, listening all the while, but in vain, for the 
least signal from the lookout men. So the weary, 
anxious morning passed. Once Mrs. Brand came in 
and told me we had changed our course, by which I 
judged that we were well within the imaginary circle, 
and for a while I was full of hope, but hope was not 
the prevailing character of her mind. She always 
foreboded evil, and I was less restless and miserable 
alone when I could kneel down in my cabin and pray 
that our efforts might be blessed with success. All 
dinner-time my uncle and Tom were very grave, and 
afterwards they had another long discussion as to the 
probable position of the boat. If she had a sail, it was 
certain she could not have used it now for some hours, 
and if she was rowed, they thought she could hardly 
be making any way. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


131 


There was now so much motion in the yacht that 
though it did not make me ill, I could not walk with- 
out holding to things about me, nor venture on deck, 
for it poured hard with rain. Tom and my uncle were 
in no mood to be questioned, their anxiety was so in- 
tense. 1 got back to my cabin with the help of Tom’s 
arm, and then learned from Mrs. Brand, who had come 
there on purpose to tell it me, that the general belief, 
in the yacht was that the boat would not be rescued ; 
the boatswain thought so, and his opinion always 
carried weight. 

‘ There was quite enough sea on to swamp a small 
boat, and one so heavily laden.’ 

‘ Why could they not bail out the water?’ I inquired. 

She held up her hands and eyes. ‘ Bless you, ma’am, 
bail out a boatful every half minute ! And what are 
they likely to have to bail with ? No, no ; a boat has 
little chance when it blows so fresh, with drenching 
rain, and such a wild sea.’ 

‘ It makes me tremble to hear you talk. I do not 
believe the boat is lost ; I believe we shall find it. I 
pray God that we may.’ 

‘ You’d better pray that it maybe afore dark, then, 
she answered, ‘for nothing can save her after.’ 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘Why, ma’am, when the wind goes off like great guns, 
and every wave that strikes the yacht is like a clap of 
thunder, how could we hear them hail us in the dark? 
You don’t understand — that is why you are so hopeful.’ 

‘ I think God will let us save them. There, I heard 
a noise on deck. What is it ? ’ 

She listened an instant. ‘ One of those lookout men 
certainly sung out,’ she answered, ‘ but all’s quiet again.’ 

She opened the door. Brand was coming down the 
companion, and with infinite disgust explained that the 
man at the mast-head had suug out, ‘ Boat on the weather 
bow ! ’ but directly after had corrected himself — the 
object was not far off, and he had recognized it as part 
of the wreck of the last evening. 

‘I cannot understand why these men, all of thenii 


132 


OFF TEE SKELLIGb. 


could not launch the long-boat,’ I remarked. ‘ It only 
took us two or three minutes last night to lower our 
first boat.’ 

‘ But consider our crew, ma’am, and all picked men, 
sixteen, not counting the sailing-master ; at least. I’m 
sure I beg the young man’s pardon, the captain of the 
yacht. Why, I’ll venture to say in that ship they were 
not thirty, all told. Then think of the size of the long- 
boat ! It generally takes an hour in a merchant ves- 
sel to unlash and lower a large boat. The long-boat, 
too, is often hoisted on to the house-on-deck. When 
Brand and I were steward and stewardess on board the 
‘‘ Dora Grant,” from Melbourne, the boats, I consider, 
would never have been any use if we had needed them. 
Why, the two that they kept slung up over the poop 
used to be lashed bottom upwards — they used to 
make roofs of them, and hang ropes of onions under one ; 
the carpenter used to lash his spare planks and things 
under the other, and both of them were so dried and 
warped by the sun, that you might see daylight be- 
tween the planks.’ 

‘ Then were they spoilt ? ’ 

‘ No ; but if the carpenter could have had two or 
three days’ notice that they would be wanted, he would 
have taken a chisel and caulked them well with oakum. 
I used to be uneasy sometimes when I considered that 
he certainly never would have notice ; but I made 
three voyages out and home in her, and we never 
wanted them at all, so I got used to it.’ 

After this conversation, which made me yet more un- 
easy, I remained alone until dusk. Sometimes I peered 
through the scuttles at the grim grey sea, and some- 
times tried to read. I thought both the noise and mo- 
tion became less as evening advanced, but was afraid 
to believe it until I was called to tea and told that the 
wind was moderating. I went into the chief cabin ; 
the charts were put away, and I saw plainly that ex- 
pectation was over, so I said nothing, but after tea 
came and read the evening lessons to my uncle, for ho 
loved reading aloud. 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


133 


T!ie wind still continued to moderate, but I was 
told it would be many hours before the sea would go 
down. Neither Tom nor my uncle went on deck. The 
latter seemed tired and lost in thought; but perhaps, 
ill order to prevent my asking any questions, he still 
asked for more reading, and I read South’s Sermons 
until ray voice failed, and all the time I was conscious 
that he could not listen, but was lost in cogitations 
'about the boat. It was nearly midnight when lie said, 
!‘ There, child, there ! you can do no more ; the Lord 
have mercy on them ! Tom, take your sister on deck 
— she wants a little air before she goes to her berth.’ 

This was a surprising idea to me ; but as it was meant 
in kindness, I went and got a shawl and hat, and came 
up with Tom as well as I could. When on deck, how- 
ever, I found it pleasanter than I had expected; I could 
stand very comfortably in the shelter where Tom put 
me ; the wind, though high, was not cold, the i^y was 
full of stars, and the rain had long been over. 

We stood together for a few minutes in silence. 
My heart was oppressed and expectation was over, 
when to my surprise and joy Tom said, ‘ You see he 
soon gives up hope.’ 

‘He, Uncle Rollin? What, have not you given it 
up, then ? ’ 

‘ I never was sanguine. No, I do not give up the 
boat. I think it might live in that sea. He thought 
not.’ 

‘ O Tom ! I am thankful for this respite from cer- 
tainty. Tell me where we are now.’ 

‘ Due west of the Skelligs, and two hours’ sail from 
them.’ 

‘ Then could we see the light on the Great Skellig ? ’ 

He laughed and answered, ‘Why, Dolly, you are 
looking due west.’ 

I had spoken, because for an instant I had seen a tiny 
red spark on the distant water, and had thought it 
might be the lighthouse. 

We came out from our shelter, and with his arm I 
took a turn on deck. Again I saw it. 


134 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


‘ Look at that little red thing,’ I said ; ‘ it is like a 
fire-fly quivering on the water.’ 

‘ It is only a light,’ he answered ; ‘ all vessels are 
bound to hang out lights.’ 

At that same instant, as we rose on a wave, the look* 
out man sung out. ‘ Light ahead ! ’ I thought he said, 
and a confusion of voices repeated the words from all 
parts of the yacht. Then the light was gone. 

‘What do you take it for?’ cried Tom, suddenly 
turning on Brand, who was now standing behind us. 
My uncle was on deck before Brand could reply, and I 
heard his order to the man at the helm, ‘ Starboard 
helm ! ’ whereupon the yacht presently swung round to 
the left, and as I looked over the bulwarks I saw the 
little red light again. It was apparently bearing down 
upon us. 

‘ That light hangs uncommon low, sir,’ said Brand, 
touching his sailor’s hat. 

Tom replied, ‘ It may be a fishing vessel, but I hope 
to God it is a smaller craft.’ 

He spoke in an excited tone, and it was evident 
that the sailors did not take this for an ordinary light, nor 
did my uncle, for in two minutes I heard orders given to 
shorten sail, and a great fog-horn was sounded, which 
I suppose was a signal to the bearers of the light, for 
our lights were put out. We lost sight of her then, 
and when she danced up again the sailors followed 
close on the horn, alternately cheering and shouting, 
‘Light ahoy!’ But the little red eye drifted do^Ti 
upon us, and, 

“ Like ships dismasted that are hailed, 

And send no answers back again,** 

she vouchsafed us no reply. 

There was a pause of expectation. ‘ I never saw such 
a strange light before,’ said Mrs. Brand; ‘it’s like a 
cabin lamp.’ They generally did the last thing I should 
have expected, and as I stood by Mrs. Brand almost in 
the dark, I said to her, ‘ They cannot see us. If we 
do not hang out more lights, how ara they to find us?’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


185 


‘ O ma’am. ! ’ she answered, ‘ never fear ; we are not 
leaving it to them to find us. We want to keep ihem 
in sight if we can.’ 

Still no sign from the little red eye ; then another 
I'ousing cheer burst fi*om our company, and in a lull of 
the wind during the silence which followed there came 
up from the water something that surely was meant 
for a reply, a feeble wavering cheer, half joy, half wail- 
ing, but pitched high. Those were women’s voices I 
knew, and tears of deep delight almost choked me. 
In the darkness came all the confusion instantly which 
had woke me the previous night. We hove to, and 
hauled down a sail ; but lights began to appear, and 
dazzled me, and men darted about, and confused me. 
I could see a great sail coming down, but I by no 
means expected it to interfere with me, and as it swung 
around, I, trying to get out of the way, did the very 
thing Brand had spoken of the night before, put my 
foot on the boat’s fall, and, slipping down, struck my 
temple slightly against some projecting corner. I felt 
sick for a moment, and found that blood was trickling 
down my cheek. It was bitter to lose sight of the 
lamp; but there was confusion and terror for me on 
deck now that I was giddy and unable to stand. I ac- 
cordingly staggered below. The lamp was burning in 
my cabin. I lifted my hair, and saw in the glass a very 
small cut on my temple. I began in all haste to stanch 
the blood and wash the traces of it from my face, that 
I might return ; but I could not ascend in time to see 
the approach of the boat, and before I had quite re- 
covered from the giddiness I heard such stamping, 
shouting, and cheering, that I knew the boat must have 
come alongside, and that her occupants, whoever they 
might be, were on board. The yacht appeared to 
plunge her bows in the water, and shake herself 
strangely. I could hardly stand, and was cold, and 
shivered, partly from the hurt, partly from excessive 
excitement ; but it is certainly true that some sights 
are good ‘for sair een.’ I saw one which cured the 
blow on my temple, for I never felt it after. 


im 


OFF THE SKELLlOa, 


1 heard, and saw when I looked up, a strangely eager 
and motley crowd — two or three men, and a good 
many limping women, wet and staring. Then followed 
another man, who came stumbling down with great 
difficulty; two little children preceded him, and he 
had a bundle strapped on his back. I touched him on 
the arm, and said, ‘ Come in here,’ and he turned into 
my cabin with the children. 

The man could not speak. One arm seemed to be a 
good deal burned, and his bare feet and hands were 
blistered and raw from rowing and exposure. 

He sank down on the floor, his hands hanging at his 
sides, and he appeared to be even more exhausted than 
the children, who lay down beside him, their clothes 
all drenched with spray, and their hair matted with 
wind and rain. 

The first thing I thought of was to feed these poor 
creatures. A glorious supper had been cooked in 
readiness hours ago, and Brand and his wife were fly- 
ing about in the chief cabin, bringing in hot soup, and 
meat, and wine, and all the good things required for 
starving people. 

I took the children for passengers and the man for 
their servant, otherwise 1 knew he would not have 
come to the after part of the vessel, for he seemed to 
be a seaman, and seamen go by instinct to the other 
end. 

Brand and his wife had, however, received orders to 
bring the passengers and the women into the chief cabin 
for the present; and when I slipped in to see what 
I could get, these poor creatures were making more 
noise and confusion than forty sailors would have excited, 
and seme were in a half-fliinting state, and one in hys- 
terics. I seized the first thing that came to hand, which 
was some macaroni soup that Brand was just bringing 
in. I ladled it out of the tureen into a basin, and 
crumbled bread upon it. The force of the wind appeared 
to be a good deal spent, for I could now walk tolerably 
and carry my soup with me. I was very glad to escape 
from the noise and turmoil ; and when I got to my own 


OFF TEE SKELL1G8. 


137 


cabin I knelt on the floor and put a little soup into the 
children’s mouths, feeding them by turns. They soon 
ceased to cry and moan, and ate eagerly, but the man 
took no notice, though I spoke to him. He seemed 
hardly conscious ; and when I found that he could not 
rise and get supper for himself, I went back again, got 
a glass of red wine and a roll, and put my hand on his 
forehead, and the glass to his mouth. At first this was 
all to no purpose, but shortly he smelt the wine, opened 
his bleared eyes, and seemed to revive a little. I got 
him to drink some, and, breaking oflT bits of bread, put 
them into his mouth, after which he seemed to sink 
back again into a kind of torpor. 

The poor little children appeared to be about three or 
four years old. They had no sooner done eating than 
they began to fret and wail again, and no wonder, for 
their pretty limbs were sore with salt water, and their 
weakness was pitiable. 

I ran to Brand, and made him bring me a large jug 
of warm water. In the meantime the man had roused 
himself sufficiently to loosen the bundle from his back, 
and when I turned from the poor little creatures whom 
I had washed as well as their weakness would permit, 
I saw that he had laid it across his knees. I could not 
attend to him, the children absorbed all my care — they 
were so weary and querulous that it was not without 
great difficulty I cut away their drenched clothes, clothed 
them from my store, and put them into the berths ; but 
this once done they were soon quiet, and sobbed them- 
selves to sleep. Then, before I could succeed in rousing 
my sailor, Mrs. Brand brought in two women who looked 
the picture of misery and fatigue. One was so faint 
that we had great difficulty in getting her into her 
berth ; the other was not so weak. I left Mrs. Brand 
to do what she could for her, and returned to the man. 

That bundle which lay across his knees — I little 
thought, when moving past him I had touched it with 
my dress, what it was. I approached death for the first 
time. It was an infant. 

I saw the light of the lamp upon a white, calm face, 


188 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


and two little plump hands. I could not doubt for an 
instant that it was dead, and when I came and knelt by 
the man as he sat on the floor, I touched the fair little 
arm and found it cold. 

As he sat in the corner, propped up by the settees, 
his head hung forward, and two or three tears had 
dropped down his rough cheeks on the waxen faie of tlie 
babe. I asked the poor fellow if I might take it away, 
and he looked at me with stupid bloodshot eyes, but 
did not answer, so I took it from him, carrying it to my 
own berth, cut off the little frock which was soiled and 
wet, wrapped it in a small white shawl, and laid my 
white veil over its quiet face. 

Though it has taken a long time to describe all this, 
I do not think it was half an hour in the doing. 

The next thing was to go to the chief cabin and see 
what could be done for this man. I wanted to find 
some one to attend him and take him away, but was 
very glad to retire, for the noise and excitement of the 
rescued people were distressing to witness — some of 
the women were asleep with heads on the table, and 
some seemed almost beside themselves. 

My uncle sat very gravely, but with rather a puzzled 
air, at the head of the table ; the American captain was 
at his right hand, and looked as composed as if no such 
things as shipwrecks had ever been brought under his 
notice ; opposite to him were the tAvo passengers, one of 
whom when I entered was proposing my uncle’s health, 
and when the other arose to second it, he staggered back, 
and subsided quietly on to the floor, contriving to make 
his speech in this new position, and wave his hands 
with great politeness and elegance. 

The poor souls,’ observed Mrs. Brand, speaking of 
the women, ‘ ought not to have been allowed to eat and 
drink as they pleased. It’s no use Master telling me to 
speak to them — they are quite past listening.’ 

I retreated hastily. They had quite enough on their 
hands without helping me, so I resolved to do what I 
could for my sailor by myself, and on returning found 
that he had managed to raise himself, and was kneeling, 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


139 


w.th fiis elbows on the settee. I thought he was mut- 
tering a prayer; and though sailors are not irreligYous 
folks, I did not see this without surprise. I waited until 
he should have finished ; but fatigue overcame him, his 
head dropped, and he dozed ; so I touched him, and asked 
if I should wash his arm, for it seemed to have been 
burnt. I had warm water; but when I set it beside 
him he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘ I can get up if you like,’ 
and accordingly he rose with difficulty, and sat by the 
table under the lamp. 

Never in my life had I touched anything so utterly 
begrimed. Some of his matted hair and whiskers had 
been singed ofi*; he must have put his head into the 
thickest of the smoke, for the rain had washed enough 
black out of it over his face to give him the complexion 
of a mulatto. His old burnt jacket was stiff with wet, 
and stuck to the injured arm; but nothing could be 
done until it was removed, so I took a sharp pair of scis- 
sors and cut it up the sleeve and shoulder as gently as 
1 could. 

The pain this gave him roused him effectually, and he 
writhed in his seat, but did not utter any exclamation. 
I had only olive-oil and cotton-wool to dress the burn 
with ; but they would be of no use I knew while the salt 
water was in it, so with the courage of desperation I 
proceeded to bathe it, trembling from head to foot with 
fear, as my patient did with pain. 

No one to help, no use calling anybody, so on I went 
until the poor fellow’s arm was bandaged and his blis- 
tered hand tied up in one of my finest pocket-handker- 
chiefs. 

The left hand also was a good deal swelled and blis- 
tered, so I washed it also and tied it up, which done, in 
a hoarse whisper he begged me to wash his face. 

Accordingly I went to my can for fresh cold water, 
turned a towel over my hand, held back his thick hair 
from his forehead, and washed and dried his face delib- 
erately and comfortably ; but it did not look much the 
better for this attention — the shock head of curly hair 
was half singed off, the whiskers were burnt, the lips 


140 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


cracked, and altogether he was an ugly specimen of a 
seaman, and liis head being still wet from the rain, little 
ink-like streams were trickling down his neck. I dried 
his hair, and made three towels quite black in the pro- 
cess. He certainly was an uncommonly dirty fellow, 
and looked as if he had never been clean ; but then he 
was ray own particular patient, so I shut my eyes to 
that, and was proud of him. Besides, the courage he 
had displayed while I was torturing his arm made me 
admire him. 

1 now told liim to sit quietly while I went to inquire 
for a berth for him. Brand, whom I consulted, said 
that my uncle and the captain of the burnt ship were 
on deck. They had given up the chief cabin to the 
women ; the captain would have Mr. Graham’s sleeping 
cabin ; and he did not know without inquiring where 
the man was to be lodged. 

He was just starting on his errand when I remembered 
that my poor sailor had no supper excepting the morsels 
I had put into his mouth at first, so I told Brand to 
bring me something good for him, and he soon returned 
and followed me down with a glorious basin of soup, a 
plate of roast beef, and some salad, and a stiff glass of 
spirits and water. When I entered, however, I found 
Tom and Mrs. Brand both looking a good deal fright- 
ened. 

‘ Where is my man ? ’ I exclaimed. 

‘You should not have left him,’ said Tom; ‘when I 
came in he was almost fainting, lying on the floor. I 
thought he had better be with the children than any- 
where else ; in fact, he cannot be moved, so as soon as 
he came to a little, Mrs. Brand and I helped him to turn 
into this empty berth.’ 

‘ I thought he was dying, I declare,’ said Mrs. Brand, 
who always thought something dreadful. 

I went up to the berth, where the man, who looked 
as if he had boxing-gloves on, was lying half insen "^ible. 
I was sure he w’anted food. I could not bear that tnese 
delectable viands should be wasted, so I resolved to 
shake him if nothing ^Ise would do, and make him eat 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


141 


If I possibly could. I gave the meat to Tom to hold 
and the tumbler to Mrs. Brand, for the yacht pitched a 
little ; then I brought the soup close to him and told 
him his supper was come. 

The smell of food is sweet to the starving. My sailor 
presently came out of his stupor, raised himself on his 
elbow, looked into the soup-bowl, and his whole coun- 
tenance lighted up. I began to feed him, and he ate 
every mouthful ; we then cut up the meat and brought 
him his grog. Ilis great hungry eyes followed us, and 
with a murmur of satisfaction he opened his mouth for 
my fork, and went on calmly and deliberately eating 
and drinking until all was consumed. 

Just as he had finished, laid himself down, and begun 
to snore, one of the children reared up its head and 
cried out, ‘Oh! please, I w^ant some tea, and I want 
some corn-cakes and some plums and pudding.’ 

‘ Why, you stingy thing ! ’ said Tom to me, ‘ you have 
not given them half enough to eat. You should have 
seen the people eat in the chief cabin.’ 

I took the little creature up, wrapped her in a shawl, 
and when I said she should have some more supper she 
laughed for joy. 

We drew the curtains to shut out my sailor that he 
might sleep in peace, and we might enjoy ourselves at 
our ease. My sickness was now so entirely gone that 
though the vessel heaved and pitched a good deal, I felt 
quite well, and so hungry, that when Mrs. Brand 
appeared with a world of good things, I sat down to 
make a late supper with Tom in my own cabin, he and 
I each holding a child, for both were now awake. Mrs. 
Brand, standing by, pinned the joint of beef with a fork 
that it might not bounce off the table, and held the 
salad-bowl in her hand for the same reason. 

I had drawn the curtain across my own berth, in 
which the dead infant lay, and I did not mean to men- 
tion its presence to any one, least of all to Mrs. Brand. 
Yet though we had such cause for joy in the saving of 
many lives, I felt as if guilty of great heartlessness in 


142 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


eating and enjoying myself while the little body lay so 
near to me. 

But the occasion was peculiar. Tom was in a genial 
humor, like his old self, easy and affectionate; the 
children were in ecstasies over their supper, and Mrs. 
Brand in high spirits, as was usual when her hands 
were full, so I ate and delighted in Tom’s talk, and felt 
the pleasure of success after anxiety. 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


143 


CHAPTER X. 

rhe wUlt above be done, but 1 would fain die a dry death. — 7 etfipett, 

T hat was a night of considerable fatigue, for as 
fast as one child fell asleep the other woke and 
cried, and there were two women who were ill, 
and I had to go to them. Poor creatures, they did not 
complain of past suffering, but they evidently had suf- 
fered sorely. 

My sailor was so quiet that once in passing I opened 
the curtains of his berth and looked at him ; — sound 
asleep, eyes shut, mouth open, the pillow black from 
contact with his hair, and the sheets in the same con- 
dition wherever his torn and scorched shirt had come 
into contact with them. 

At last, when all was quiet, and Mrs. Brand was doz- 
ing on the settee, Tom came in and asked if I could 
do anything for the American passenger ; he had been 
very much hurt, but had not complained. 

We made him welcome, and I recognized him as the 
man who had proposed Uncle Rollin’s health. He 
hobbled in with groans of pain. ‘His feet had been 
burnt,’ he said, ‘ by the dreadful heat of the lower deck 
when he went below with the captain to investigate 
the cause of the fire.’ 

He had taken off his shoes shortly after on account 
of the unbearable heat they retained, and at first the 
bums had seemed mere trifles, but salt water had got 
into them and he was suffering agony. 

‘ I have not been able to do as much as I could have 
wished,’ he said, ‘ for I am coming over to Europe for 
ray health, so I tried to give as little trouble as possible, 
for you may suppose we have had a hard time of it.’ 

He had a loud hollow cough. I woke Mrs. Brand, 


144 


OFF THE SKELLIOS 


and we did what we could for him, but did not relieve 
him much. 

He had been a passenger on board the burnt ship, 
and as he sat, propped up with pillows in a corner, he 
gave us an account of their numbers, by which I found 
tliat we had rescued thirty persons, only six of whom, 
beside the captain, were seamen. 

‘ A queer lot we were,’ he observed ; ‘ those women 
that you saw in the chief cabin belong to a trapeze 
company — “a show,” we call it in the States — and 
some of them were dancers, some conjurors, and some 
actors, fairies in a sort of pantomime, which, as far as I 
can make out, their show partly consisted in. Sallow 
stunted young things they were ; the superior members 
of the troupe had gone up to New York, and come 
home in a steamer, these were following in a merchant 
ship, and very decently they behaved themselves,’ ho 
continued ; ‘ that old Irishwoman snoring yonder acted 
mother to them. She swore at them now and then, 
but to do her justice she kept them out of harm’s way.’ 

‘ None of the women in the cabin looked young,’ I said, 
surprised at this account of their calling. 

‘No, they wither early, I should judge. But some 
are not young; one is the mother of three strapping 
girls that are here with her ; they dance and she is a 
fairy.’ 

As he spoke like an American I thought he was one 
till he told me he was of English birth. ‘ Though I 
have lived in the States twenty years,’ he observed, 
‘ and belong to them now both heart and tongue.’ 

In spite of his past fatigues he could neither rest nor 
be silent, but by little and little as the night wore away 
and daylight came in from above, he told us the story 
of their misfortunes. 

‘The ship was laden with cotton, and about eight 
o’clock on Friday evening a steam was perceived to be 
rising from the hatches over the main hole ; every min- 
ute or two a whiff of light smoke came after it, and 
fears were entertained that it might be caused by fire* 
damp. 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


145 


‘'Jliere was some secrecy at first, but the men 
were sent below to the pumps, I know, and there 
was some notion of cutting holes over where the cargo 
was stowed so as to pour down water on it, while let- 
ting in as little air as possible ; but it seems that if cot- 
ton is well flooded, it is liable to swell so as to burst 
the deck open, and I made out that this plan was 
given up. 

‘ But in less than an hour,’ he continued, ‘ things 
looked so much worse that the captain ordered all 
hands on deck and summoned the passengers ; he told 
them that a portion of the cargo certainly had ignited, 
but that as we were only seventy miles from Cape 
Clear, he hoped we might make it, and also get the 
fire under. 

‘ The steerage passengers were at their supper when 
they were sent for. I heard them as they came up say*- 
ing what a mighty hot night it was, what an uncom- 
monly hot night : he told it all out in two minutes, and 
began to give his orders to his men instantly. It was 
a very sudden blow, and not one of those people, man 
or woman, said a single word. 

‘Nobody took any further notice of them,’ he con- 
tinued, ‘ all hands were set to work to extinguish the 
fire. Did you ever see a fire ? ’ 

‘ No, never.’ 

‘ I never saw one the least like this ; a little steam 
would come puffing out over a spot in the deck not 
larger than the crown of a man’s hat, and then blue 
flame would hover in it, but not touch the deck. They 
would put it out directly and it would appear in another 
place — wherever it had fed, the place was rotten. 

‘ The crew consisted of thirty all told. The passen- 
gers were twenty, not including these children. 

‘ Excepting myself, Mr. Brandon, Mr. Crayshaw, and 
the children, they were all steerage passengers. We 
stood at first a good deal huddled together, but as soon as 
I had passed to the front I saw that the main hatchway 
had been lifted, that the bales might be raised })y a 
crane ; but the heat and steam seemed to drive the 
7 


j 


146 


OFF THE SKELLIG8, 


men back, and the bales were so rotten that they would 
not hold together on the crane hook, but kept falling 
back with a dull thud, and when this had happened 
several times, the captain ordered the hatches to be 
battened down, and all sail to be crowded. 

‘ It was now dark, and though the heat increased, 1 
did not see that the fire gained on us at all ; they kept 
flooding the deck with water and throwing it up iiitc 
the rigging. I was full of hope that it would be kept 
under, and therefore it was a homd blow to me when 
the captain had the lower sails hauled up, and gave orden 
for unlashing and launching the long-boat and the jolly, 
boat. I do not believe this was a quarter of an hour 
from the time he had battened down the hatches. 
Well, the jolly-boat was stowed inside the long-boat: 
they succeeded in getting her unlashed ; we hove to 
and she was launched. Brandon and Crayshaw had 
volunteered to go below and help the men to fetch up 
biscuit, flour, water, cocoa, and any other provisions 
they could lay their hands on. I saw them come on 
deck again all right, and one boat was ready, but when 
they tried to get the long boat unlashed flames broke 
out, and before these could be got under she was so 
damaged that they dared not use her. Those two 
boats would have held us all. 

‘An hour at least was spent over those boats. I 
had volunteered to do what I could, and the captain 
ordered me to take all the women below that they 
might put on their warmest shawls and fetch up their 
money and what valuables they had. I was to make 
them keep together and be ready to bring them up at 
a signal from him. 

‘ My legs trembled under me as I marshalled them, 
for I was shocked to hear that he did not think there 
was any use wasting time over the small boats, and 
meant to give all his mind to the making of a raft. 

‘It all seemed so sudden! As I went after the 
women I shouted to Crayshaw, “ What on earth does it 
all mean?” He was just flinging off his velvet coat, 
and answered, “ Depend upon it he knows what he is 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


147 


cif)out.’’ I felt, as I suppose a man may, when not think- 
ing he is at all near death, he is told by the surgeons 
that he has only an hour to live. They were already 
flinging overboard every spar and plank and spare yard 
they could lay their hands on to construct a raft as fast 
as ever they could. 

‘Never shall I forget how the women tore out and 
tossed over their things, nor how their tongues went. 
I helped them to make up their bundles as well as I 
could, but nobody knew what to save. We did not 
know what to be at, and before we were called they 
would go up again carrying arm-loads of rubbish, old 
shawls, old baskets, bandboxes, bundles, and even old 
shoes. 

‘ I had heard the constant splash and shouting as the 
materials went over the side, and as I looked over what 
would I not have given to be young ! A dozen men 
were working with a will. There was that dandy Cray- 
shaw lashing away, and Brandon as nimble as a cat 
following out all his directions, for the captain knew 
that Crayshaw had experience, and had given him the 
command. They were making it on the lee side, of 
course, but still it pitched about more than was agree- 
able. It was a strange sight, but dear me, what should 
a young lady know about the making of a raft I ’ 

‘ How large was it ? ’ I asked. 

‘ How large ? well, about five-and-thirty feet long, 
and rather narrow in proportion. I am amazed when I 
think how the time appeared to spin on, for it was now 
eleven o’clock, and I was still standing among the rub- 
bish and luggage of diflerent sorts when Brandon came 
up to the captain and reported the raft ready. Cray- 
shaw followed in a moment, and the captain said, “ Gen- 
tlemen, there is no time to be lost.” “We are under 
your orders, captain,” said Brandon. A great burst of 
smoke came between us, and I did not hear the answer, 
but I saw that a good many of the women had disap- 
peared ; they had gone down again, hoping to save 
something more, poor souls, and I ran after Brandon, 
and between us we argued and pushed them up, stum^ 


148 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


bling as they came with quantities of bedding and 
boxes, not a particle of which ever was lowered. 
The change was amazing by this time; the whole place 
was gleaming with little spurts of flame, but there was 
a great noise and confusion, screaming of women, and 
cries of shame. “ What’s up now ? ” we shouted to 
Crayshaw, who was kicking the bundles aside as they 
fell, and pulling the women on. The passengers, he 
told us, and some of the crew had made a rush for the 
jolly-boat. It was manned by the most able-bodied of 
the crew ; it had dropped astern and disappeared. 

‘ When, hours after that, we counted out the people 
left behind, twenty-three were missing ; they had stolen 
away from the ill-fated ship, and no doubt their excuse 
to themselves was that if they had taken in any more 
they must have been swamped. 

^ The captain, however, was quite equal to the occa- 
sion, and after swearing at the boat to relieve his mind, 
he vowed he didn’t see what there was to make such 
work about. “ And Mr. Crayshaw,” said he, “ that is 
your opinion.” Crayshaw was an American, the only 
one of the passengers that was American born. He 
took the captain’s meaning instantly, and between them 
I believe they actually made the women think the raft 
was safer than the boat. 

‘ y ery nasty work it was getting them lowered, and 
bef()re this was half done, one of them cried out, ‘‘ Mer- 
cit'ul heaven, I forgot the baby ! ” She had been very 
good to the orphan children, but the second time she 
went down she had laid this one in a berth, and only 
just found out that no one had brought it up. She was 
like a mad creature, and down she flew, Brandon after 
her They found the child asleep — a wonderful thing 
that was surely. He wrapped a blanket about its head 
to keep the smoke ofi*, and tried to get on deck follow- 
ing her, but they were met by such a volume of smoko 
and steam that she fell down choked, and he got hold 
of her by the arm and hauled her up by main force ; he 
fell twice, but when he was down he could breathe, and 
he crawled on deck dragging her after hhxi. They were 


off the 8KELLI0S. 149 

not five minute? below, but when he got her on deck he 
was badly burnt and she was stone dead. 

‘He never knew that. I took the child and ho 
staggered on between two* till he got his breath, and 
soon none of us doubted that our best chance was to 
embark on the raft, for the beams were creaking and 
splitting, and the flames curling round the main-mast, 
and with a loud singing noise the pitch seemed to 
boil. The fire did not appear as yet to have possession 
of a large space, but it was all about the main-mast, and 
that made us long to give it a wide berth. 

‘We were all lowered without accident, and it was a 
strange thing to see her go sailing on when we had cast 
ofi* and were drifting astern. 

‘The captain had a pocket compass, the Lord bo 
praised for that, and for my fellow passengers never 
were there such ridiculous fellows I do believe.’ 

‘ Ridiculous ! ’ I exclaimed, with astonishment. 

‘ W ell,’ he replied, as if apologizing for them ; ‘ there 
was hardly any motion on the raft at first, but one 
woman had brought a pillow-case half full of oranges 
and apples with her; some of them got loose, and 
Brandon and Crayshaw had to lie down on their 
stomachs to catch them for fear they should lose any 
and roll ofi*. Crayshaw as he did it actually whistled 
and sung. Another woman had brought a rope of 
onions that she snatched fi*om under one of the boats on 
the poop (good luck to her for it). Brandon tied it to- 
gether with the string it had hung by, and put it round 
his neck as the easiest way of carrying it. As he 
stooped it flew over his head, and he called to Cray- 
shaw, “ Look out, America, my necklace is coming ! ” 

‘ I felt confounded at their behavior. I said to the 
captain, “ W ell, this is a most amazing way of commit- 
ting ourselves to the sea. Anybody to see them, go on, 
might think we’d met with some great deliverance.” 

“‘Well, Mr. Dickson, sir,” replies the captain; “I 
reckon they perhaps think so ; ” and he looked on un- 
commonly satisfied. As the last orange went in and 
the pillow-case was tied up, they began to overhaul the 


150 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


onions, and Brandon insisted on filling Crayshaw’g 
pockets with them; they seemed indeed so light* 
hearted and so excited that at last I could bear it no 
longer, and I burst out, “ W4iat in nature all this means, 
I suppose they know themselves, for I don’t.” 

‘ “ Means,” replied the captain, turning his head over 
his shoulder and staring at me. “ Why, ar’n’t you aware 
that every minute of the last hour she has been just as 
likely to blow up as not ! ay, and a great deal likelier.’* 
‘lie confirmed his opinion with various strong ex- 
pressions that I need not repeat to a lady. 

‘ But the notion of the blowing up stopped my remarks 
for some time. I had thought all along that they had 
both seemed in a frantic state of eagerness to get that 
raft ready, and when Brandon had been helped down, 
for he was terribly bruised, I saw them take each other 
by the hand. Bruised they both were, but neither of 
them seemed to feel their hurts at first. 

‘ “ Fire-damp’s an etarnal risky article,” continued the 
captain. “ Mr. Brandon, sir, I’d be much obliged to you 
for an apple, I’m a’most choked.” Brandon turned as 
he lay and gave him one. The captain took out his 
pocket-knife and peeled it in quite as particular a way 
as ever he would have done in his own ship. Then he 
jerked the peel overboard, and while he was eating he 
and his chief mate watched it. 

‘ “ We shall do now,” said he ; “ we’re making no way 
at all, and she’s forging on pretty fast ahead.” 

‘ In fact, it had fallen very calm, and I calculate we 
had been on the raft half an hour, when he gave orders 
to his men to see about getting up the sail that we had 
brought with us. It took some time to fix that, as you 
may suppose, but the ship, though she was sailing 
wildly, was well out of our way by that time, and dur- 
ing the whole remainder of that first night nobody 
seemed to feel either fear, fatigue, or hunger. The ex- 
citement had been great, and there was a good deal to 
do, the boxes, bags, and what-not that the women sat 
on, had all to be fastened together, and by means of a 
calnn lamp that we had brought with us, we did this 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


151 


pretty well. Then the raft had constantly to be lashed 
afresh in one place or another, and as soon as it was 
light the captain had a great sea anchor made in case 
the wind should fi'eshen. 

‘It was not till high day that we all knew where our 
real weak point was — we had hardly anything to cat ; 
almost all the women as they passed the boats where 
they were stored had filled their pockets with onions, 
and, as I said, we had a pillow-case half full of oranges 
and apples — besides that we had plenty of water ; but 
only a very small keg of flour, and it was not half full ; 
of course, the children would not touch the raw onions, 
nor could we, but we each had an apple, and we turned 
the onions over to the’ seamen and the women. Then 
we kneaded up a little flour in water for each person. 
It made a kind of paste, and we coaxed the children to 
eat it, putting bits of orange into it, but we began to 
feel the pangs of hunger by that time, and Brandon and 
Crayshaw were very stifl:’ and sore. It fell calmer and 
calmer till the raft hardly swayed on the sea, and the 
fine warm air comforted us after the chill of the night. 
Brandon and Crayshaw, who had been amusing the 
children since daylight, whistling and singing to them, 
telling them queer stories, setting up little whirlygigs 
for them, which they pulled with strings, settling the 
women’s shawls and serving out the rations, had now 
begun to be very quiet ; they were nearly used up, I 
calculate. 

‘But about ten o’clock the women began to show 
themselves weary and out of spirits; first one shed a 
few tears and then another. Then Brandon asked if 
any of them had got a Bible or a prayer book, and one 
of them, produced a dirty little prayer book. So he 
])roposed to the captain to have morning service, and 
they were all pleased, poor souls ; it seemed not only 
something to occupy them but the right sort of thing. 
So be read over the English morning service, and then 
some collects and hymns. He sang several hymns for 
them to please them, and they joined as well as they 
could. Then after that, it being almost a dead calm, he 


152 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


an l Crayshaw laid themselves down in the sun, and if 
you’ll believe me, they both fell sound asleep, and slept 
as soundly as they could have done in their berths, and 
I think as sweetly. 

‘ That was something for us all to look at, and for some 
of us to wonder over. 

‘ The captain had his compass in his hand, and the 
great sail shifted and flapped. Another onion was 
served out all round, and the children had their paste 
again ; they would have cried if they had been hun- 
gry, and none of us could have borne that, it lowered 
our courage so. 

‘ The baby had been a gi-eat pleasure and occupation 
to the poor women and girls. He was ten months old, 
and I actually fancied that when he woke in the morn- 
ing, after sleeping all night, he looked about him as if 
he liad the wit to be surprised. He spluttered a good 
deal over his paste, but they made him eat it, and he 
crowed at the sails and the sparkles on the water and 
his little sisters almost all the morning. He was asleep 
now, and all was very still, but at last the captain, not 
without unwillingness, gave the order to haul down 
our sail. There was hardly a waft of air, he said, but 
what came being now off shore, down it must come. 

‘ Oh ! you cannot think how much worse for us that 
quiet was than all the noise and fright and hurry that 
had gone before. 

‘With the noise of hauling down the sail, Brandon 
and Crayshaw woke, shivered a little, sat up, and 
glanced at one another. It always hurt me to see 
them do that,’ he added, and paused. 

‘Indeed, why should it have done?’ I inquired. 

‘Well — yes, ma’am, thank you, I’ll take some tea 
(tills was to Mrs. Brand, who came in and offered him 
a cuj ) — ‘ because it made me feel that they knew theirs 
were the most valuable lives on the raft: we were 
oldish and they were in their prime. O these feet of 
mine ! I know I shall never stand on them again.’ 

‘ O, yes, indeed you will. We shall get into Valencia 
shortly, and you will have a surgeon ; but tell me about 
the raft, that seems to make you forget the pain.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


153 


‘ Why, as I said, those two woke and looked about 
them, and all seemed changed to them and to us; they 
were cold and hungry, and dirty, and wet, all the ex- 
citement was over, and they were both so stiff now 
that they could hardly drag themselves upright. I 
could see, too, that they were sorely vexed to find that 
the sail was lowered. 

‘Brandon twisted himself round that the women 
might not see his face ; Crayshaw made an inspection 
of the raft, and saw that she lay as still as a tub on a 
pond — made an inspection of the water, but not the 
remotest flutter of a sail could be seen anywhere. He 
looked for a moment dumbfounded, then he drew a 
diamond ring that he wore from his finger, and with a 
sort of rage of impatience chucked it into the sea. 

‘Nobody but the captain and I saw the action, unless 
Brandon did. I saw the little sparkle flash and go 
down. Then he looked up and catching the captain’s 
eye he said, for an excuse, “ It cut my hand last night ; 
I suppose I have a right to fling it away if I choose.” 

‘“Well,” answered the captain, “my opinion is con- 
trary to that.” “ I should like to fling myself after it, I 
know,” Crayshaw went on, in a bitter tone, poor fellow, 
but speaking low. 

‘ “ W ell,” replied the captain ; “ and for aught you 
know, sir, so should I, but my conscience is clean con- 
trairy to that sort of thing. It wouldn’t square with 
what I have to do.” 

‘ “ I have nothing to do,” said Crayshaw. 

‘ The captain put his hand in his coat pocket and 
pulled out a parcel. “Mr. Dickson,” said he, “if these 
two gentlemen air agreeable, will you serve out an 
onion to each of ’em, for they’ve not had their rations. 
And, gentlemen,” said he, looking straight at Crayshaw, 
“ you air always in such spirits as I’ve never found op- 
portunity hitherto to put in a word, but now, if you 
air agreeable, I propose a smoke with that he opened 
the parcel, and there were enough cigars in it for every 
man to have one, and there was one over. The sailors 
would rather by half have had a pipe, but O ! how glad 
7 * 


154 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


we all were of those whiffs of comfort, they seeTne«i to put 
heart into us, and after that Crayshaw said he thouglit 
the onions smelt rather relishing, and ate his ; Brandon 
had got one down already without the least ado. Now 
it seems odd to you, I dare say, when we were at that 
pass — no signs of rescue and hardly anything to eat 
— that we should have cared about the eating of an 
onion.’ 

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I should have expected that you would 
all have been more frightened — more serious.’ 

‘ Ah ! well that stage came next ; it had fallen per- 
fectly cairn, and now a fbg came up and wrapped itself 
over us, so as we could hardly see from one end of the 
raft to the other. As long as the captain’s steady face 
could be seen the girls could keep quiet, but when it 
grew dim in the mist they got afraid, first one began to 
fret and then another. Crayshaw was himself again, 
and he scolded and joked and encouraged as well as he 
could, but all to no purpose ; “ we weren’t making a 
mite of way, they knew; they should all go down to 
the bottom or be starved ; they hadn’t been half such 
good girls as they could ha’ wished to be if they had 
but know’d how it would end,” and with that they 
began to talk about their sins, and next about their 
souls! Crayshaw turned himself round then, for he 
knew he was done for. And Brandon said if we would 
light the lamp he would have another service. They 
were all in a terrible fuss by that time, sobbing and 
wringing their hands, but he managed to get the com- 
mand, and when they cried out that he must pray 
for them as he did by the poor lady that died on board, 
he said, quite cheerfully, yes, he would, there could not 
be a better time. Well, I know the captain was as 
frightened as could be, their crying and their talk 
made him groan and wipe his forehead as the burning 
ship never did. “ Good God, Mr. Brandon,” said he, 
“ if anything can .be done you air the man to do 
it; won’t you act parson and tell ’em they’re all 
right ? ’’ 

‘I wa« nearly used up by that time and lay still, but 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


155 


I got aware by degrees that Brandon was half reading, 
half discoursing to them, talking about the love of God 
to man, if you’ll believe me. My word ! he almost 
made out it was well for them that they were sinners, 
because it was for such, said he, that the Son of God 
had died.’ 

‘Don’t you think he was right?’ I said, observing 
that he paused and seemed to reflect. ‘ The women 
and girls were dreadfully frightened because they sud- 
denly felt that they were sinners ; how natural then, 
and how right to show that for sinners Christ had 
died.’ 

‘ Well, I suppose it must have been right, for it 
answered ; but I thought it strange when they all felt 
how hard it was to go down — that he should talk 
about the love of God. But,’ he continued, ‘ though I 
haven’t got religion myself, I agree that he behaved 
himself grandly. If he was a parson and preached 
anywhere, I’d go twenty miles to hear him, not only 
for what he said but because he had a voice that’s 
almost enough to charm up the dead. 

‘ He never said a word about death, either drowning 
or starvation. If Christ was here now, he asked them, 
standing on the raft, and they could see Him, should 
they be afraid to ask Him to forgive them and help 
them over their last trouble and take them home? 
Some of them said, “No.” Well then, ask Him, says 
he, for He is here standing on the raft. I feel that He 
is, though I cannot see Him. 

‘And so then he began to pray. That sort of re- 
ligion is not what I’ve been used to, but it seemed to 
warm my blood and make death bearable. He made 
out, you see, that Christ was the love of God waiting 
with us, till we were ready for Him. Well, I shouldn’t 
wonder if I’ve heard that said before, but sitting still 
on the raft on the still water, and the still mist lying as 
thick over us as a shroud, lowered down ready because 
there’d be none to do it for us after death, it sounded 
different, and I calculate you’ll not be soiTy to hear 
that before I went off into a faint, as I did from hun- 


156 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


ger and a sore fit of coughing, I made up a prayer my 
self, and felt easier for it.’ 

‘ You must have suflTered more than any of them, you 
are such an invalid.’ 

‘ I don’t know about that, I had neither burns on me 
nor bruises, and I was not fiitigued, I had only to lie 
still ; and through all the faint or the sleep (part both, 
I guess) I heard him talking to them with a sweet 
man’s voice, always quite cheerful, and then I heard 
him sing for them, and then I grew quite insensible. 

‘ I believe it was pain that woke me at last, more 
than motion and noise. I sat up ; there was a swaying 
and a surging of water, and the sea anchor was just 
about to be launched overboard. 

‘What is that like, do you say? Well, it’s some- 
thing like a sort of a huge kite, weighted at one end 
so as to keep it up and down in the water ; we were 
fastened to it by a rope about twenty fathoms long. 
The object of it was to keep the raft end on to the sea.’ 

‘Was that about midnight?’ I inquired. 

‘I think so ; the full moon was just going down, and 
the sea had risen when I sat up.’ 

‘ Then you had the sail again, I suppose ? ’ 

‘ Not so, a raft can only sail before the wind, and now 
the wind that had come up, suddenly pushing the mist 
before it, was from the south-east.’ 

‘ Then I am afraid you were in worse case than ever ? ’ 
I observed. 

‘ No, not altogether, for at least we had something to 
do ; we had to hold on and take care of the children. 
It is astonishing to me, considering all we went liirough, 
that the time seems so short. There was no reading, 
no praying, and no singing now, you may be sure. 
The baby cried and wailed all night, but the other 
children were tolerably quiet. We had hardly any- 
thing left by that time to give them, and they were 
perished with cold and wet with the salt water. By 
eleven o’clock the women all tied themselves together, 
and as well as we could hear ourselves speak, we shouted 
to them and to one another to keep up heart, for if we 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


m 

did not rioon fall in with a sail we should be swamped, 
and then, we said, the Lord would have mercy on our 
souls. Oh, that was a dreadful day, but yet if it had 
to come over again I would rather go through with it 
than with the calm. I cannot speak of it any more, 
and these feet of mine shoot fire. The whole day long 
we were knocked about by the wind and drenched with 
rain and salt spray; sometimes the waves that struck 
us loosened a spar or plank and it was flung among us, 
striking us and loosening our hold. It was when one of 
those seas struck us that the baby got a blow ; Brandon 
had it on his arm at the time, the poor women being all 
so spent with fatigue that they could not hold it. But 
I don’t remember much more, except that they lashed 
me to Crayshaw that he might hold me up — in short 
we were all knotted and held together round the spar 
that we set up for a mast, and how we got over the 
day I cannot say that I know. Yet, though I seemed 
to others to be insensible, I revived the instant I heard 
the captain call out that he saw a light. The carpen- 
ter roared out, “ A sail, a sail, right ahead,” and a min- 
ute after we heard a rousing cheer.’ 

. ‘ And that lamp ? ’ I inquired ; ‘ it was a cabin lamp, 
was it not ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘the captain allowed it on ac- 
count of the infant. I noticed it and brought it up, for 
I thought it would be a comfort, as it proved.’ 

‘ Did you bring it on board ? ’ 

‘ I can’t say : your people may have done so, they did 
everything for us.’ 

‘ I hope it is not lost. I should like to have it.’ 

‘Would you, though? Well, you are a very nice 
wl, miss, I will say — not a bit of pride, uncommonly 
Eko an American 1 ’ 


158 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

As proper men as ever trod 
Upon neat’s leather. — Julius Ccssar, 

A bout seven o’clock I looked out and found we 
were getting very near Valencia. My poor 
patient, who was in constant pain, expressed a 
wish to be carried on deck, and I was not sorry for this, 
as I had the children to dress and feed before they 
could be sent on shore. 

Brand, however, who came in with the captain of the 
yacht to assist Mr. Dickson on deck, told me that ‘ mas- 
ter’ intended to keep the children on board, and only 
send the other passengers and the sailors on shore : a 
good breakfast was to be prepared for them at the inn, 
for we had not provisions and accommodation enough. 

Accordingly I went to help Mrs. Brand in dressing 
the women : to some we gave a shawl, to others a cloak, 
and I had to take off the muslin gown I was wearing 
for a poor girl who was almost in rags. 

The old Irishwoman was very weak ; but as I helped 
her to array herself in a dark winter gown, that I had 
altered for her in the night, while listening to the story 
of the raft, she showed that she had some strength left 
in her voice ; and when I plied her afterwards with tea 
and bread and butter, she called down all sorts of in- 
congruous blessings on me from the Virgin and the 
saints. 

‘May ye have heaps of lovers, ma’am dear; may 
your husband be a Lord High Admiral, and bring ye 
boat-loads of jewels and handsome things.’ 

At eight o’clock we came alongside the wharlj and as 
I wanted very much to see both Crayshaw and Bran- 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


159 


don 1 darted up on deck, holding up as well as I could 
the train of a white alpaca gown that I was wearing 
for my morning dresses were all gone. It was trimmed 
with apple-green ribbons, and was far too fine for the 
occasion. 

A basket of fresh vegetables and flowers was already 
on board, sho\^ing that I was but just in time. As I 
passed it, I lifted out some roses and stood shading my 
eyes with them, for the low sunbeams dazzled me. 

I saw several men about to land, and one sitting on a 
deck seat who I was instantly sure must be ‘ the dandy 
Crayshaw ; ’ not that there was anything of the dandy 
about him, but that he was manifestly so handsome that 
whatever he wore would appear to become him. 

Brand was standing beside him, holding a brown 
glove and a pair of glove-stretchers, and no doubt had 
assisted at his toilet, having had two wardrobes to 
choose it from. He looked fatigued, but most peace- 
fully happy. One of his hands was disabled for the 
present; but he was safe, he was clean, and he had 
breakfasted. 

He pulled off his hat with his left hand, and, if I had 
felt any doubt as to his identity, his tone of voice 
when I answered his greeting would instantly have 
betrayed him. As I sat down by him, his eye was 
caught by the flowers, and he said something about the 
rose of England ; he had always thought of it as a pink 
flower, ‘ but he perceived,’ looking at the flowers and 
at me, ‘ that it was white.’ 

I proposed to put one of the rose-buds into his coat 
for him, and he looked pleased, but said nothing; per- 
haps he thought it was a common custom in these 
islands for girls to go about decorating strangers with 
the national flower. It was not the first time I had put 
a flower into that coat. It was one belonging to Tom, 
and I knew there was a little band below one of the 
button-holes for confining the stalk. Mr. Brandon, he 
told me, had not yet come on deck ; but the captain 
was with my uncle, making arrangements for the pas- 
sengers and the crew to land. I should like to have 


160 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


Bpoken to him, hut the girls were beginning to come on 
deck, and one, I was told, liad no slioes to land in, so 1 
went down to find a pair for her; their poor array had 
been sorely damaged in the drying, and when the last 
pair of feet had been fitted with some embroidered slip- 
pers I came up again, and was only just in time to see 
the American captain, who had already landed, stai.d- 
ing hat in hand on the quay, with his men behind him 
acknowledging the cheer from the yacht. 

The women were then sent on shore to the inn, and 
we sailed into the middle of the harbor, where we cast 
anchor, and I had a good breakfast on deck; for the 
chief cabin was in a state of great confusion, and my 
own cabin was occupied. It was a beautiful summer 
morning, warm and calm ; the lovely rocky coast ap- 
peared to cut itself boles in the sky, and the dazzling 
water was so brimfiil of light that one could not look at 
it. Just as I had finished this breakfiist (which I shall 
never forget, for I had never been really hungry in my 
life before, and did not know how delicious a thing is 
eating in such circumstances), I heard a strange voice 
in my cabin, and straightway proceeding thither I found 
that Tom had been ashore, had brought a surgeon on 
board, and they were standing together by my sailor’s 
berth. Mrs. Brand, who was very tired, was gone to 
rest ; but Brand and I produced various things that the 
surgeon wanted — sponges, warm water, &c., and at his 
desire we held them for him while he examined the in- 
jured arm. 

My sailor was awake, and staring at us all with such 
evident surprise as gave his features almost a ludicrous 
expression — singed, bruised, and scratched as he was, 
it was hard to say what he might have been like under 
other circumstances, but I could not help perceiving 
that when he looked at me he appeared excessively dis- 
concerted. I did not see any reason for this — I was 
not at all disconcerted myself ; a girl no older than I 
was had left Ipswich to be a nurse in King’s College 
Hospital, and why should not I do a little nursing too, 
when it had come in my way so naturally ? 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


161 


‘Well,’ said the doctor, as with gi’eat difficulty the 
poor man wrenched liimself round so as to face us, ‘I 
hope, my man, you feel yourself able to acquiesce in the 
will of Providence?’ 

The man looked at him. ‘ I feel nothing of the sort, 
he answered bluntly, at the same time turning, with a 
grimace of pain, to suit the surgeon’s convenience. ‘ If 
you had asked me whether I felt grateful,’ he presently 
added, ‘I should have answered heartily “Yes;” but if 
fire and water had both done their worst on me, I could 
but have acquiesced.’ 

The doctor, on this unexpected retort, looked a little 
crest-fallen ; for the tone of it was to the last degree 
hoarse, and the manner of it was irascible. I was de- 
lighted, for I have always thought it very impertinent 
in the educated classes to be so fond of driving morals 
home to those whom they consider beneath them. 

‘ Well, my man,’ he muttered, ‘just as you please.’ 

In the meantime Tom had retreated, and I did not 
like to have Mrs. Brand called for, for I knew how tim- 
orous and tearful she was ; so when the surgeon said, 
‘ Who is to attend to this arm for the future ? ’ I replied, 
‘ I believe I shall, if you will be good enough to tell me 
how.’ 

‘You shall? Very well, ma’am; you think it won’t 
frighten you — make you nervous ? ’ 

‘No. I hope such a burn on my own arm would not 
frighten me ; why should I then be afraid of it on 
another person’s ? ’ 

‘That,’ said the patient, faintly and with another 
grimace, ‘ has very little to do with it.’ I knew it had 
not almost as soon as the foolish words were spoken ; 
for when I saw the drops of perspiration stand on his 
forehead, and his features redden with pain, I felt my 
heart and courage sink; but I recovered myself pres- 
ently, and stood by till the surgeon had finished, and 
had given me his instructions. 

The man looked at me several times. I was quite 
aware that he had seen my momentary failure of 
courage ; he was an observant fellow. I thought his 


162 


OFF TBE SKELL108. 


last remark, though perfectly true, was uncalled for; 
but then, as I repeated to myself, he was an American ! 

He complained of violent pain and stilfness across his 
shoulders, and was desired to remain all day in his 
berth. His other hand was then looked at. Lashing 
ropes had taken the skin off the palm ; but it was de- 
clared that nothing more was the matter witl it, except- 
ing that the salt water had caused some irritation. I 
was rejoiced at this ; there was at least only one hurt 
for me to attend to, and I obeyed with a degree of 
alacrity that I was ashamed of, when the surgeon said 
he had done with me, and would trouble me to tell my 
brother he was now ready for the clean shirt that he 
had proposed to lend the patient. 

Yes! I went out of the cabin quicker than there was 
any need for, and being very tired I had no sooner 
delivered the message than I curled myself up in the 
corner of a settee, fell fast asleep, and never woke till a 
rush of water broke the stillness and told me that wo 
were leaving the harbor. 

Uncle Rollin and Tom were both in the cabin, and 
when I woke and looked up the former said, ‘ Well, 
well, no wonder she was tired ; she was not at all in the 
way during the night, — was she, Tom ? ’ 

‘ Quite the contrary,’ answered Tom, pleasantly ; and 
men are so apt to look on women as encumbrances at 
sea, that this admission more than contented me. 

I was told that we had put the doctor on shore; he 
was an Englishman, and had come with an excursion 
party from Killarney. ‘ He had said the children were 
very weak, and ought to have food every two hours 
— and — and — I’m sure I forget his name,’ my uncle 
continued, ‘ but it seems he mainly wants rest, food, and 
care, so I shall not put them on shore for the present.’ 

I went softly to my cabin with some soup for the 
children ; the door was propped open, and I saw my 
sailor in his berth, and Mrs. Brand nodding on a seat 
fast asleep ; both the children were asleep also ; and I 
set down the soup, and stole softly to my own berth ; for 
it vexed me to llie heart to think that I had been over- 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


163 


come by that drowsy fit, and had not spoken to any one 
respecting the little infant whom I had laid there. 

I opened the curtains, intending to look at it and la} 
my hand on its pure white forehead ; but to my sur- 
prise it had been removed : there was a slight depres- 
sion on the pillow, but the babe was gone. 

‘ Miss Graham.’ 

I closed the curtain, and went to my patient. It waq 
he who had spoken ; but clean surroundings and brushed 
hair had made another man of him ; he was not quite 
so hoarse either ; rest and food had partly restored his 
voice. 

I asked if he knew anything of this removal. He 
said yes, that the captain had come in before the sur- 
geon left ; that he had mentioned the subject, and the 
surgeon had landed in charge of the babe, and with all 
proper directions. 

He told me that he had breakfasted ; and in reply to 
my question, said he did not want anything, unless I 
would be kind enough to examine his jacket and see 
whether there was a book in it. 

This singed and soaked garment lay on the floor : I 
picked it up and brought it to the side of his berth. 
First came out a short bit of tobacco-pipe ; then a knife ; 
lastly, a shabby book, blistered and bulging with sea 
water. 

I felt sorry to see how completely I had cut the poor 
man’s jacket to pieces ; for I knew it was the only upper 
garment he possessed, and as I turned it over I said — 

‘ I am afraid this jacket is quite spoilt.’ 

He smiled and answered gently, ‘ Oh, it is of no ecu- 
gcquence ; I dare say your brother will lend me some- 
thing to land in.’ 

Fancy a sailor dressed up in Tom’s clothes! My 
brother, indeed ! I was surprised at the man’s quiet 
assurance. This was American equality truly; and 
when he added, ‘ And if the same kind hand to which 
so many of us are indebted will produce a pair of scis- 
sors to trim my hair,’ I felt my cheeks glow with dis- 
comfort. I could not wait on tliis sailor so comfortably, 


1«4 


OFF THE SKELLIOS 


if he smiled in my face and asserted such perfect 
equality. 

^ My maid shall bring you a pair of scissors,’ 1 an- 
swered, speaking as gently as I could, but gravely ; and 
I was moving away when he said in haste — 

‘ Excuse me, have I annoyed you ? ’ 

Nowhere on land is so much difference acknowledged 
between the employe and the employer as there is in 
every vessel at sea. Discipline forbids the ‘ man before 
the mast’ to assert equality. I did not then know that 
this was just as much the case in American ships — I 
thought perhaps it was not, and felt vexed with myself; 
for what right in such a case had I to be offended? So 
Brand at that moment coming in with a message to me, 
I sent him for the scissors ; and when the man repeated, 
‘ I have annoyed you,’ I replied, ‘ If so, it is only be- 
cause I am not accustomed to the manners of Ameri- 
cans : they differ so much from ours.’ 

‘In what respect?’ he asked, and he looked puzzled. 

I was a little frightened, but could not now withdraw 
from the discussion. 

‘ English sailors all speak to ladies as that one did 
whom you have just seen,’ I answered. 

The look of surprise increased ; but yet he seemed to 
catch a part of my meaning instantly, for he replied — 

‘ He did not speak with half the respect that I feel 
— madam (this last word he added doubtfully, and as 
an after- thought). I had not expected such an answer, 
and began to feel puzzled in my turn. ‘ Here is your 
book,’ I said, handing it ; and as I glanced at him I 
encountered, instead of the respect he had mentioned, 
a countenance in which amusement seemed to be 
struggling with a kind of tender admiration. 

No one had ever looked so at me before — no, never 
in ray life; and I was ashamed of myself to feel how it 
made me blush (oh, how could I have been so foolish ?) ; 
and what was worse, the man was actually aware of my 
confusion, and meant to help me out of the scrape ; ho 
said — 

‘ I am not a sailor nor an American — madam,’ again 


OtF THE SKELLIG3. 


165 


i^ide<3 doabtfully, ‘but I feel the justice of your re- 
marks. Very few of us can claim equality with one of 
youi* sex and character, it is so much above us.’ 

‘ Here is your book,’ I interrupted hastily. ‘ There 
was no inequality thought of but that of station — a 
triding one, which I only wish to have admitted, be- 
cause it makes it easier for me to offer you my assist- 
ance.’ 

I laid the book on his counterpane, intending to 
withdraw, feeling thoroughly worsted and puzzled as 
to whom and what this man might be ; but the swelled 
leaves fell open, and I sa^v that it was a Greek Testa- 
ment Quite involuntarily a slight expression of sur- 
prise escaped me, and, relieved at anything which 
changed the subject, I said — 

‘ This is a Greek book ; is it yours ? ’ 

‘Yes, it is;’ and with ready tact he did not add the 
‘ madam.’ 

‘You are an educated man, then.’ 

The same smile shone in his eyes, and softened the 
corners of his mouth. 

‘Does that surprise you?’ he asked. 

‘ Very much indeed: I believed you were one of the 
sailors.’ 

I saw that I had made myself ridiculous, but that he 
was indulgent towards my youth. He, however, did 
not refrain from laughing, and I laughed too; but, 
though it was at myself I was relieved at the turn 
things had taken. We both became grave again sud- 
denly ; he, probably, from politeness ; I, because I re- 
membered that, after all, he was a perfect stranger to 
me. In grasping the book, he had forgotten tlie blis- 
tered hand, and now dropped it hastily ; upon which £ 
took it up and said, ‘ You cannot hold this Testament ? 
I shall be happy to read some chapters for you.’ 

Ilis eyes opened wider as he lay, and he looked very 
much surprised ; but he said not a word. 

‘ Where shall I read ? ’ I inquired. 

lie asked for a chapter in Hebrews ; and I read it and 
the two following ones. I should have stopped sooner 


166 


OFF THE SKELLIGi^. 


but for the knowledge that if I looked up, I must en- 
counter his eyes. The task was a pleasant one too : I 
had not read Greek aloud for some time, and the effect 
of it, and that time and that place, was strang<^ even to 
myself. The last time I had i-ead it, was with my dear 
old master at school : now I was my own mistress, it was 
even my turn to minister. 

It was a daring thing to read Greek to a man and a 
scholar, and I had done it of my own accord in order 
to escape from the awkwardness of further conversation, 
or of a precipitate retreat. I felt all this strongly at 
first ; but, as the reading advanced, the wonderful in- 
terest of the subject made me forget myself^ and as I 
read more seriously, my listener became more and more 
still. 

The third chapter, which was the tenth of Hebrews, 
came to an end at last ; and as it was finished, the first 
verse I had read recurred to my thoughts, and seemed 
to echo in my ears — ‘Now of the things which we 
liave spoken this is the sum.’ lliis / what was this f 
Why, that we had such a High Priest as we needed — 
one whose sacrifice had been accepted. What then? 
We must ‘hold fast this faith,’ and be thankful. It 
seemed to me, as I sat there silently, that I did hold it 
fast — I did believe that Christ had saved this lost 
world and me ; but then what had followed ? My eyes 
glanced on at the next chapter : the result described 
there had not followed. It was a chapter which often 
disturbed me. ‘ By faith,’ it said, ‘ Abel offered a more 
excellent sacrifice. By faith Noah prepared an ark. 
By faith, Abraham, when he was tried, offered up Isaac ; 
and he that had received the promises offered up hia 
only begotton son.’ 

W onderful truths these. Where was my sacrifice ? 
Was it ready when it should be called for? If it was 
not ready as a proof of my faith, how could I hope 
that I possessed any ? To believe that if God called 
on me to make a sacrifice I could not do it, was, as I 
knew, in itselff a proof of this want of faith in Him ; 
for I had read expressly that faith is the gift of God; 


OFF THE 8KELL10S. 


16T 


^rliy did I not believe, then, that He would give it me, 
and make me able to receive it, specially as He is a 
God who, when asked, giveth liberally, and upbraideth 
not? 

It is a remarkable thing, and I have noticed it too 
often to think I can have been deceived, that moods of 
mind, and sometimes even thoughts, will occasionally 
pass from one person to another, while both are silent, 
almost as distinctly as they can be conveyed by words. 
So that day, as my thoughts went in and in, searching 
for the hiith they hardly dared to find, my eyes at last 
encountered those of my companion : he was quite as 
much absorbed as myself, and seemed to rouse himself 
with difficulty, and said very slowly, — 

‘Thank you — when a man has jjust escaped from 
what seemed inevitable death, those chapters take a 
more solemn meaning for him. There was something 
so real in Paul’s religion; he was not afraid to say, 
“ If these things are so, what manner of persons ought 
we to be ? ” ’ 

‘I should have thought the more difficult thing to 
say, was. What manner of things are we to do ? ’ 

‘That was included in a mind like his. The doing 
is an inevitable result of the being. And yet ’ he went 
on, touching very nearly on my thought, ‘the par- 
ticular line that should be taken up, the particular 
sacrifice to be made, is not always a problem easily 
solved. The more free a man is to do as he chooses, 
the more difficulty in offering the sacrifice that God 
demands, and not one of his own inventing. But some 
people have a way of thinking that what they are 
about must be pleasing to God, if only it is unpleasant 
enough to themselves. And then,’ he continued, ‘if 
we do give up a few years or a few pounds, how mean 
we are about it ! Some of us, in our prayers, can even 
ask God to enable us to do yet more, flaunting our 
charity, as it were, in the face of our Maker. I have 
done it myself,’ he added, slowly, and as if the remem- 
brance of it astonished him. 

‘ Oh, but St. Peter was beforehand with us there,’ 1 


168 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


answered. ‘I have often thought how meun it was 
in him to remind our Lord that he had left all, and 
to ask what he was to have in return for this great 
act.’ 

‘ When all he had to forsake,’ said my patient, ‘ was 
his share in a rotten old tub of a fishing-boat, and those 
nets that he had not finished mending. I should not 
wonder if, on the whole, he was glad when he reflected 
that he had not mended all the holes. He was content 
to give them up ; but, as he was not to use them again, 
it was not such a heart-break to leave them torn as 
whole.’ He laughed and went on, ‘At least, that is 
the sort of feeling I have had now and then.’ 

I thought this willingness to talk of his meannesses, 
and his feelings in general, w’as most likely in conse- 
quence of the extreme danger he had just escaped 
from. People forget their shyness and their reserves 
at such times. As for me, I liked his straight-forward 
openness; it suited ray humor and his circumstances. 

‘ And yet,’ 1 answered, speaking up for St. Peter, ‘ the 
boat and the nets were all he had ; and so they were as 
much as any of us can give.’ 

‘ Certainly,’ he replied, ‘ and we must all be willing to 
give everything. Nothing is so little worth while, even 
here, as being religious by halves. It’s not worth while 
looking out for heaven on the whole, and yet going as 
near the edge of hell as we dare, and as we can find 
footing. Wliat we want is a heedless daring and a wise 
improvidence the other way. The right man to fol- 
low any cause, let it be what it will, is he who loves it 
well enough to fling to it everything he has in the 
world, and then think that not enough, and so fling him- 
self after it. This last item often weighs down the 
scales held in heaven, and the man gets what he gave 
himself for. God concludes the bargain, and accepts 
the pay. These things are reflections of the great sacri- 
fice — “ Lo, I come.” And the need for self-sacrifice is so 
completely the law of the world, that it is not merely 
in religious matters that we must give all, or get noth- 
ing. If we want to do any great good to our fellow- 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


169 


creatures, though it be solely a temporal good, it is just 
the same. Give yourself and all you have, and most 
likely you will get it; give half, and you get nothing 
worth mentioning.’ 

^ I wonder what you give,’ I thought ; and then I said 
aloud, ‘Do you think St. Paul expected the world to 
last as long as it has done ? ’ 

‘No,’ he answered, ‘nor (if he had known that it 
would last to this epoch) that he would have pictured 
to himself such a world as this is.’ 

‘Because he would naturally expect that all Chris- 
tians were to be like the first,’ I replied ; ‘ instead of 
which, if he could see us now — ’ 

‘Well? If he could see us now. Miss Graham.’ 

‘ He would perhaps suppose that we were not Chrib 
tians at all.’ 

‘ Indeed ! — yet he had a good deal of that most ex- 
cellent gift of charity.’ 

‘ I hope, if our Saviour came. He would acknowledge 
a great many of us as Christians. But Paul ! — I cannot 
see how Paul could. He could not see into our heaits, 
or make allowance for circumstances. I think he would 
be very indignant with us. Perhaps he would consider 
Christianity to be extinct, and want to found it over 
again. And, you know, we could not argue with him 
about apostolic succession.’ 

‘ That would be very awkward,’ said my patient, and 
to my surprise he laughed ; ‘ but I think you would 
find,’ he added, ‘ that we should all come in for his cen- 
sure with mortifying equality. We should see the w^on- 
derful balance weighted again, and leai*n which weighs 
heaviest — light or love. I must remind you, though, 
that if St. Paul came again he would find some virtues 
among us, that, if all Christians had been like the first, 
could have no longer any existence.’ 

‘Would he?’ 

‘ Certainly ; for if the world had been thoroughly 
Christian, there would by this time be no oppression, 
nor ignorance, nor squalor, nor crime. The whole hav- 
ing been done, Paul would have found us either attend- 
8 


170 


OFF THE SEE L Lias. 


ing to our own concerns, or waiting to see what was t«' 
be done next.’ 

‘But, if we were all Christians, are you sure that 
there would be no more poverty?’ 

‘Certainly not — that is, if (as we are pleased to 
suppose) we were such Christians as the first ; for tlieii 
crowning virtue was the conquering of their selfishness, 
and selfishness is the vice which stands in the world’s 
light at present. Instead of subduing poverty by help- 
ing and inducing the poor to go out and inherit the 
earth, many of us wish to keep them ci’owded here, 
because their poverty is their inducement to labor for 
us, rich. Why, if the swarms in the weaving and the 
spinning world are to be thinned, who will bring a 
revenue to the cotton-lord ? If the crowded alley is to 
be deserted, who will make our shirts and our gowns? 
and if at the parish school we bring up all the children 
to fly like nestlings as soon as they are fledged, where 
are our housemaids and nursemaids and cookmaids 
to come from? Am I bound to reap my own corn, 
because a long way off* a field lies fallow, that starving 
Jem Brown might reap for himself, if I would send him 
to it? Must my wife dress herself, because she has 
taught her pretty maid to sail for a place where she can 
be her own mistress? Must my daughter sit in the 
nursery, and sing her little brothers and sisters to sleep, 
because the village maidens grow too wise through her 
lessons to do the work of my house, and wish to go 
away, and be welcomed to houses of their own? No; 
truly God made my servant what he is ; God placed me 
over him: let him work — it is his duty; let me play — 
it is my birthright ; and let none of us presume to wish 
that God had placed us otherwise ! That is what peo- 
ple say — at least a great many of them.’ 

What a singular man my supposed sailor now seemed 
to me, — vehement as a boy — eyes dilating and flash- 
ing, but otherwise motionless as a log. Strange that he 
should say all this to a young girl of whom he knew 
nothing, and that he should put such energy into his 
words when the pain in his shoulder absolutely forbade 
him to turn on his pillow. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


171 


He complained that the bandage on his arm was 
tight, so I brought scissors to cut the thread, ard a 
needle to fasten it again. As I handled his arm my 
band trembled a little, and he said hoarsely, ‘ Indeed, 
you do it excellently well ; I am grieved that on my 
behalf you are obliged to undertake what alarms you.’ 

As pain made him wince once or twice, I was a little 
frightened ; for the excitement was over now, that in 
the night had made it easy. 

I had thought, several times during our conversation, 
that this must be the man whom I had heard so much 
of from Mr. Dickson, and, unable to repress the wish to 
know, I said, ‘May I look at your book again — at the 
fly-leaf?’ 

He smiled, and asked ‘ Why ? ’ 

‘ Because I wish to know who you are.’ 

He pushed the Testament towards me with his better 
hand, and said, ‘ Perhaps I feel the same curiosity as to 
you: first, a brave lady waiting in the night on the 
dead and the living — ’ 

‘ Oh, it is easy to do anything when one is excited.’ 

‘ Is it ? So much the better ; and then — ’ 

‘ And then a silly girl, I suppose, taking for granted 
that you must needs be a sailor — a man before the 
mast — and also afraid to look at a burn.’ 

‘ Having previously declared that she should not be 
afraid to bear it.’ 

‘ I think so still.’ 

‘And then reading Greek; and now — ’ 

I was looking at the fiy-leaf. Yes, it was as I had 
expected : there stood the name — ‘ Giles Brandon ’ ! 

‘I hope my name does not displease you,’ said my 
patient quietly. 

It pleased me at my very heart ; but I did not say 
anything, only laid the book down again, and went to 
the berth of one of the children who had just awoke.’ 

The little three-year-old cherub had not forgotten her 
‘banyan’ days, and, holding out her chubby arms, said 
‘ Oh, please, I want some pudding.’ 

I wraj)ped her in a shawl, and took her into the 


172 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


chief cabin, where were Tom and my uncle ; and whil<> 
we sent Brand to fetch her some dinner, I said, ‘ Wliy 
did you not tell me that was Mr. Brandon ? ’ 

‘How could I suppose you did not know it?’ was 
his net unnatural answer. As he spoke, he was admir- 
ing the child’s rosy little foot, holding it in his hand. 

‘ I shall have to change berths with you to-night,’ ho 
presently said. ‘ Of all things I dislike being near peo- 
ple when they are ill.’ 

‘ I do not mind it in the least. I wish to be able to 
attend on them.’ 

‘Oh, Brand must do all that to-night,’ said Tom; 
‘and :f you can do it in the day, well and good. I 
couldn’t — ’ 

‘Pooh!’ said my uncle, mistaking the drill of our 
words. ‘I am very glad that Dorothea is not lacka- 
daisical. If this Mr. Brandon were a young man, there 
might be some excuse, but he looks old enough to be 
her father.’ 

‘ His face is scorched and swollen,’ said Tom, ‘ but I 
do not think he can be more than fbrty.’ 

Some cold rice pudding now appeared, and my little 
darling made with hands and tongue demonstrations of 
ecstasy. I began to feed her, and in the midst of the 
meal Mrs. Brand appeared with a frock, made of part 
of a gown which I had given her in the morning to cut 
up for the children. 

She had been very diligent. 

‘ It is all cobbled up, ma’am,’ she said, ‘ and so is the 
petticoat ; but they will do for the present.’ 

‘ Oh ! it is beautiful, Mrs. Brand ; and the next time 
my uncle and Mr. Graham go on deck, we will wash 
and dress the children here.’ 

‘ W Inch is as much as to say, that the sooner we go 
the better,’ observed my uncle. 

Mrs. Brand had been so busy, that she had forgotten 
her usual discontent; but now she suddenly remem- 
bered a new source of sorrow. 

‘ And whatever is to be done,’ quoth she, ‘ if we don’t 
soon go into port. I’m sure I don’t know ; for our young 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


173 


lady has hardly a thing left to wear. Her gowns, her 
whivO petticoats, her pocket-handkerchers gone to the 
Irish folks ; and these pretty ones, and that blessed lit- 
tle cerpse that I’m sure I haven’t a word to say against.’ 

My uncle on hearing this looked aghast, and I said, — 

‘ I think you and I can arrange this little matter with- 
out troubling the gentlemen about it.’ 

‘ Have you parted with much, Dorothea ? ’ said my 

uncle. 

‘ Not with much, uncle, that was of use at sea.’ 

‘ Why, lor’. Miss Graham, your good purple coburg 
and that excellent black cloth cloak.’ 

‘ W ell, we will talk of this some other time : that 
cloak was very unbecoming to me.’ 

‘Would ten pounds set the damage right?’ asked 
my uncle of Mrs. Brand. 

‘Yes, uncle; and five pounds I still have left of my 
allowance. Now, Mrs. Brand, go and fetch the other 
child ; I hear her crying.’ 

‘Ten pounds you shall have,’ said my uncle, very 
angrily, just as if he was decreeing me a punishment. 
I did not want him to find me such an expense just at 
first, but it was of no use disputing the point, so I 
thanked him with as good a grace as I could, and re- 
solved that Mrs. Brand should have a scolding for her 
interference on the first convenient opportunity. 

The gowns I had given away were of very little use 
at sea. A black silk, a blue one, and the brown-holland 
affair that Mrs. Brand had made for me, while I was ill, 
were all I now cared to retain, excepting some muslins 
which I kept to wear on shore ; for a starched muslin 
becomes limp directly at sea, and most colors fade, so 
there was no self-denial in what I had done. 

In came Brand with a roast chicken, bread-sauce, and 
green peas ; and Mrs. Brand with the other child, who 
was very cross and hard to please, did not want to bo 
dressed, did not want any dinner, did not think the 
chief cabin was at all a pretty place — no, and did not 
mean to be good. 

The roasted chicken, etc., were intended for Mr 


174 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


Brandon, and Tom volunteered to go and give him his 
dinner, Brand following with the tray, and my uncle 
marching in brimful of hospitality, and probably bent 
on making his guest eat and drink more than was good 
for him. 

‘It’s the queerest thing 1 ever knew, ma’am,’ said 
Mrs. Brand, ‘ that our name should be Brand and the 
gentleman’s name Brandon.’ 

I admitted that it was odd, but it had not struck me 
before ; and we were soon fully occupied with the chil- 
dren, — my little pudding-eater beginning to cry be- 
cause her sister did, and both fretting and pining all 
the time we were dressing them. 

Their new pink frocks pleased them, however ; and 
the elder, after due persuasion, ate a little piece of 
bread and marmalade. 

I was bent on making them look nice to please 
my uncle ; their wet shoes had been dried and blacked, 
their little socks washed, and their hair carefully 
brushed, — it hung down straight and silky over their 
cherub cheeks ; but, though they looked rosy, they were 
still fatigued and listless, and at last, as nothing pleased 
them — it rained so that they could not go on deck — 
I let the elder go back to her berth with Mrs. Brand, 
and kept the little one, thinking to manage her by my- 
self. But I was deceived : no sooner was the elder child 
withdrawn than this little thing broke forth afresh into 
the most dismal wailing. 

‘ Oh, I want to go too ! Oh, I want to go to my Mr 
BandonI Oh, I do, I do, I do! I don’t like this 
place at all.’ 

I was soon obliged to promise that as soon as she was 
good she should go ; thereupon came a smothering of 
the sobs, and the prompt assurance, ‘I are good.’ 

So I took her up and joined the assemblage in my cabin, 
where I found my uncle chatting to Mr. Brandon, while 
Tom carved for him, and Mrs. Brand sat in a cornei 
nursing the elder child, who was gradually sobbing her- 
self to sleep. 

More rest and more food had restored the voice which 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


175 


was so hoarse before; it was now deep and decided, 
but, like many another man who is fond of children, 
Mr. Brandon could soften his tones when he spoke to 
them, and make them caressing and tender. 

I held my pretty little tyrant in my aims, and she 
intimated that it was her pleasure to go and look at 
‘ her Mr. Bandon,’ so I took her up to his berth ; and 
she gazed at him for awhile, saying, with a sage grav- 
ity, — 

‘ He’s got a very ugly face to-day ; it’s all over 
scratches.’ 

An ugly face every day, I thought, as I looked at it, 
though no doubt the singeing of the hair and whiskers, 
and a bruise across the bridge of the nose, had not im- 
proved it. 

‘I want to kiss he,’ were her next words, so I put 
her dimpled cheek down to his face. 

‘ I thought I heard somebody cry,’ said Mr. Bran- 
don. 

‘ That was me — I did cry.’ 

‘ What did you cry for ? ’ 

‘ Because I did.’ There must be some inherent rea- 
son in human nature to account for this answer : all 
children give it. I wonder what equivalent for it 
French children have. ‘Where’s my baby?’ con- 
tinued the child ; ‘ my baby didn’t have any pudding.’ 

‘ Baby is not here,’ said Mr. Brandon, gently. 

‘ Is he in that other ship, sailing away ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘I want he. Look at my new frock; this one,’ 
touching my cheek with her finger, ‘ this one did give 
it me ; it has pink buttons — look,’ and she held out 
her sleeve. 

‘ What a kind lady ! ’ 

‘ It has pink buttons ; but,’ in a low voice, ‘ I don’t 
want her to carry me.’ 

‘You little ingrate! But I think you tire Miss Gra- 
ham’s arm. You don’t want to look at me any longer^ 
you know, as I have got such an ugly face.’ 

‘ Yes, I do.’ 


176 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


But I thought I had stood there long enough, so 1 
bribed her with the promise of some pictures to come 
away ; but even then she would not leave the cabin ; 
she must stay, she said, and take care of Mr. Brandon ; 
so the dinner being now cleared away, I retired, and 
lell her there under the charge of Mrs. Brand. 

The sea-sickness, though it was quite gone, had, of 
course, left me rather weak ; so I was not sorry to find 
the chief cabin empty; and I took a couch and sat 
down, to think .over the events of the last few days and 
hours. 

The rain had ceased ; I did not care to go on deck, 
but sat there reflecting till the natural consequence 
followed : I again fell asleep and dozed deliciously, till 
a sudden clatter of footsteps startled me, and Tom came 
in, crying out, ‘ Come, Dorothea, come ; your laziness 
astonishes me. Don’t you want to see the Great Skel- 
lig?’ 

Of course I rushed on deck. The Great Skellig !' I 
had seen a picture of a rock — a hard material thing ; I 
had read descriptions of its geological strata ; I knew 
it was a thousand feet high — but was this the Great 
Skellig ? I stood amazed ; there was a pale glassy sea, 
an empty sky, and right ahead of us, in the descit 
waters, floated and seemed to swim a towering spire of 
a faint rosy hue, and looking as if, though it was a mile 
off, its sharp pinnacle shot up into the very sky. 

The ‘ westernmost point of British land, and out of 
%ight of the coast,’ — was this that cruel rock on which 
the raging waves had driven such countless wrecks, and 
pounded them to pieces on its slippery sides ? 

A boat was lowered. Tom was going to row round 
it, though he said that, calm as the water was, it was 
still not quite safe to land. To my delight, he volun- 
teered to take me with him ; so I sent for my hat and 
cloak, and we rowed towards the great rock in the 
glorious afternoon sunshine. 

How often have I been disappointed in the outline 
of hills and mountains: they seldom appear steep 
enough to satisfy the expectation that fancy has raised. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


177 


Here there was no disappointment. The Great Skeh 
lig shot up perpendicularly from the sea — not an inch 
of shore, the clear water lapping round it was not 
soiled by the least bit of gravel or sand. As we drew 
near, its hue changed ; a delicate green down seemed 
to grow on it here and there. I sat in the boat and 
looked up, till at last its towering ledges hung almost 
over us, and its grand solitary head was lost, and the 
dark base showed itself in all its inaccessible bareness. 

As we had lain half-way between it and the vessel, I 
had looked back and seen that our floating home was 
but like a green duck riding on the water, while the 
Great Skellig in comparison was like the ramparts of 
some city whose crown was in the sky. 

Now we were near, Tom said to me, ‘Do you see 
those peaks that look like little pinnacles ? ’ 

I looked, and his finger directed me to a row of points 
about a third of the height of the rock, and projecting 
from it. 

‘ Those points,’ he continued, ‘ are as high as Salis- 
bury spire; when there is a storm, the wave breaks 
high enough to cover them with spray.’ 

So sweet and calm they looked, serene and happy, I 
could hardly believe what I heard, nor picture to my 
heart the cries and wailing of human voices, the rend- 
ing, pounding, and wrecking of human work that had 
been done on them, tossing from peak to peak, and 
ground on the pitiless rock since first men sailed. 

I was not sorry when we left the rock behind us ; but 
Tom was bent on landing, if possible, and he also 
wished to see the Lesser Skellig; so as this could not 
be done that day, my uncle, who loved to give rocks a 
wide berth, meant to put out to sea for the night, and 
return so as to sight the Skelligs about morning dawn. 


1 * 


178 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Hsrmione. By this we gather 

You have tripped since. 

PoLiXENES. O my most sacred lady, 

Temptations have since tuon been bom to us. 

D inner was ready when we reached the yacht, 
and while we dined Uncle Rollin told us he had 
changed several of his plans, for he had been talk- 
ing with Mr. Brandon, who had told him that as the 
children now on board had no one at all to look after 
them, he did not intend to lose sight of them till they 
reached their destination. 

They were to go to their grandmother, an old French 
lady who lived at Chartres. 

‘ So,’ said our kind uncle, ‘ I have offered to take 
him and them into Havre, and that will facilitate mat- 
ters very much.’ 

Tom and I looked at one another on hearing this, 
and for once he caught us doing it. 

‘ I shall not stop a day longer at Havre than I can 
help,’ he remarked. Neither of us said a word; but 1 
knew very well that Tom would like to have a few 
da^'s to spend in the north of France. He was familiar 
enough with the ends of the earth, and had spent years 
in cruising about on the west coast of South America 
and in the China seas, but, excepting once when there 
had been a few months spent in the Mediterranean, and 
that was in his boyhood, he had never set his foot on 
the shore of France. 

‘ There is nothing more ridiculous than the modern 
lashion of racing through a foreign country, and then 
fancying you know all about it,’ said Uncle Rollin* 
‘Butter, Brand.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


179 


Still silence. 

‘ Cheese/ said my uncle, raising his voice ; ‘ you 
can’t stir a step beyond a French seaport without a 
passport. In fact, so long as 1 am the owner of this 
yacht, I shall never lie in harbor, waiting till it is your 
— ahem ! till it is other people’s pleasure to come on 
board. Nobody takes any cheese, it appears. Clear 
away. 

His voice had been rising at every sentence he spoke, 
and the moment he had said grace he marched on deck 
without waiting for his wine. Tom went into my cabin 
to sit by Mr. Brandon, and as there was a good deal of 
work to be done for the children, I remained where I 
was and began to stitch. Presently, down came Uncle 
Rollin again. 

‘Well, Miss Graham, you seem very much at home.’ 

‘I thought you would not object to my working 
here, uncle, because you know the after-cabin is occu- 
pied.’ 

‘Modest! why don’t you say “my cabin.” No, I 
don’t object ; but now, understand this, — if you think 
I am going to wait your pleasure while you run about 
in Normandy — ’ 

‘Indeed I never did think so, uncle; how could I 
run about there by myself ? ’ 

‘ By yourself ! the presumption of some young people 
is astonishing ! Then I suppose you expected me to es- 
cort you ? ’ 

I really was too much surprised to answer. When I 
had said ‘ by myself,’ I had only wished him to think 
of me apart from Tom, whose cause I did not want to 
damage. 

‘ Why don’t you speak. Miss Graham ? I know you 
have an answer on the tip of your tongue.’ 

‘ I know I have presumed sometimes,’ I answered, 
unable to repress a smile ; ‘ but really, uncle, I nov(^r 
thought of that piece of presumption. If I had — ’ 

‘ W ell, if you had ; go on, go on, I say.’ 

‘ I had much better not.’ 

‘ Then you should not have begun. Since you got 


180 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


over your sea-sickness you are more demure than ever; 
go on — nobody knows better than I, whether you pre- 
sume. I hate mysteries; speak out — i/ you had 
what — ’ 

‘ If I had, perhaps you would have rewarded me for 
it; you always do.’ 

‘ Rewarded ! what do you mean, child ? Do you 
mean to say that I encourage you and Tom in presura- 
ing, and let you have your own way ? ’ 

‘ Yes, uncle, I think you do.’ 

I felt a little alarmed when I had been compelled by 
questioning to give this direct answer, and I went on 
as fast as I could with my work. 

‘ If a man ought to command anywhere it is on board 
his own yacht. And here am I, told to my face, that I 
am encouraging mutiny. Well, Brandon shall go to 
Chartres because I said he should.’ 

‘Yes, uncle, and I shall stay behind because you 
said I should.’ 

‘Humph ! Well, there was one thing that I prided 
myself on ; only one — and it was — Pooh, child ; 
what am I to kiss you for ? a foolish custom — stuff, 
nonsense. What do you want, coaxing a man in this 
way ? what do you want, hey ? ’ 

‘ Shall I have what I want ? ’ 

‘ I’ll see about it.’ 

‘ Then I want to stop with you in the dock at Havre.’ 

‘You do, do you’ (a short laugh). ‘I won’t be 
lectured in this style for nothing. If it is more con- 
venient to me that you should go to Chartres, go you 
shall.’ 

‘ But you said you would see about it ? ’ 

He laughed ; but I did not understand the cause of 
his gratification till afterwards, and went on, ‘ I am 
very happy on board, I could not be happier than with 
you.’ 

‘ Ahem ! ’ he said, ‘ if I don’t assert some sort of au- 
thority now, I may as well give it up at once and for ever. 
So I say, go to Chartres you shall. I’ve set my mind 
on it, and I expect you to be content.’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


181 


‘Vary well, uncle, I’ll try.’ 

‘You will; nobody to sec your grave little face 
would imagine — What are you folding your work up 
for?’ 

‘ It makes my head ache to work down here.’ 

‘ Go on deck, then, and take the air ; you may give 
me a kiss, if you like, first.’ 

I went on deck, and about tea-time came below* 
As I reached the open door of my own cabin, I took 
off my hat and shawl and gave them to Mrs. Brand, 
desiring her to fetch me out my work, and as I waited 
these words fell on my ear, — 

‘ So, as they have set their minds on it, go they must ; 
young people, you know — young people contrive to 
get the better of an old man like me.’ He spoke as if 
this profession of slavery was made with great prido 
and self-grat Illation. 

A voice fi’om the berth remarked in reply, on his 
great kindness and indulgence. 

‘ Indulgent,’ was the reply, ‘ well, perhaps I am. At 
any rate, I never deny them anything. Ask my niece 
if I do.’ 

He had evidently come out, to his own apprehension, 
in a new character — that of the indulgent uncle. Ho 
had been quite unconscious hitherto of the manner in 
which he gave way to Tom and me ; and now it was 
forced on his notice, he was highly gratified, and even 
fussy. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said; ‘I suppose they will ex- 
pect me to lie at Southampton Pier while they get 
their passports.’ 

Mrs. Brand gave me my work, and I returned to tho 
chief cabin. 

That night we took coffee in the after-cabin with Mr. 
Brandon, who, although he could not lift up his head, 
declared that he felt much better. We then went on 
deck once more in the dusk, saw the dim outline of the 
Great SkelLig, with the two lights on its summit look- 
ing like two great eyes in the head of some rampant 
monster. I went early to my new berth, and did not 
wake in the morning till Mrs. Brand came to call me. 


182 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


Mr. Tom says you must dress as fast as you can, miss, 
for it is calm, and he is going to land on the Lesser 
Rock. Some of the sailors have been there already. 
You never saw such a sight — it is covered with white 
ducks as thick as snow along the ledges.’ 

I started up, and made inquiries about Mr. Brandon 
and the children. They had slept perfectly well, she 
said. Mr. Brandon had eaten a hearty breakfast, and 
now called for shaving-water. 

‘Much use he found he could make of it,’ she con- 
tinued, with a dismal sigh. ‘ That arm of his is so free 
from pain that I should not wonder if it has begun to 
mortify! However, I told him that Brand always 
shaved Master, and he says he should be glad of his 
help, so I called him, and he is going to get him up.’ 

‘ What for ? He had much better lie still.’ 

‘ He won’t, ma’am. His shoulders are much better ; 
and he is so shocked at your being turned out of your 
cabin.’ 

‘ What nonsense ! I wish I had known.’ 

‘He can’t abide the confinement either — gentlemen 
never can. He wants to be on deck; so he was got 
some clothes of Mr. Graham’s and a loose overcoat, and 
get up he says he will. Called for a looking-glass he 
did, and when he saw himself he laughed till the tears 
ran down his face. One of his cheeks is a good deal 
swelled, and he has some blisters on his forehead yet. 
1 think he’s hoarser than ever this morning — he croaks 
like a raven.’ 

I could not do anything in the matter but say to Mrs. 
Brand how glad I should be if he could be comfortable 
where he was ; but it was pleasant to find that he has 
well enough even to think of rising. So she went away, 
and I was dressed and nearly ready to come on deck, 
when she burst in again to the little state-room, pale 
and staring. 

‘ Oh, Miss Graham ! — Oh, my heart beats so ! Bless 
me. Mr. Brandon — he would get up, and he has 
fainted ! ’ 

I had seen Mrs. Bell faint too often to be alarmed at 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


183 


this news. I had a bottle of salts that I bought at 
Ipswich to use at church when I felt sleepy, so I rushed 
to the scene of action to find it ; and there I saw the 
two children sitting up in their berths wailing, and Mr, 
Brandon lying flat on his back on the floor, with Tom 
and Brand on one side of him, and my uncle on the 
other. A large ba^rket of spotted eggs stood on the 
floor, and round about the patient and over him 
sprawled several awkward-looking ducklings. Each 
child was hugging one, and a third was s|)reading out 
its skinny web feet on the pillow that he had laid his 
head on. 

I pushed my way past them to find my keys, and 
open the locker where these salts were kept, and when 
they were discovered, Mr. Brandon had begun to re- 
cover consciousness, and was sitting upon the floor, 
Tom and Brand supporting him. His lips were blue, 
his face yellow, and he looked so difierent from the 
crimson-hued patient of yesterday that I should not 
have recognized him. 

The first words he uttered were words of rebellion 
against his nurses. ‘ Take the odious stufl* away ! ’ So, 
finding that he did not like the salts, I dipped a hand- 
kerchief in cold water, and laid it on his forehead, 
whereupon he opened his eyes and shivered, looking 
about him with an air of disgust and astonishment. 

‘This,’ he presently observed, with the true per- 
versity of a sick man, as distinguished from a sick 
woman — ‘ this is entirely because I did not go on deck 
quickly enough.’ 

‘ Sir, you had not strength to get up at all,’ remarked 
Mrs. Brand. 

‘If I could breathe the fresh air I should be well 
enough. Nothing pulls a man down like lying in 
bed.’ 

When he had absolutely the day before been unable 
to lift his head from the pillow ! 

‘You’d much better lie down again, sir.’ 

‘No; I must shake this ofil It won’t do to yield 
to it.’ 


184 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘Do wait, sir, for a little while.’ 

‘ What is the use of arguing ? ’ said I. ‘ If Mr. Br» 
don can go on deck, it will do him good.’ 

‘Yes, exactly so; that is what I intend.’ 

‘ And if he finds he cannot he is quite safe here.’ 

‘ There is no doubt that I can do it.’ 

I was almost sure he could not, but Tom said there 
was no harm in trying, so he presently made another 
effort to rise and stand on his feet, which with a good 
deal of help he accomplished. 

I was so much afraid he would fall that I did not 
dare to look till he had dragged himself out of my 
cabin, and by the aid of a few pulls and a few pushes 
had actually got on deck. 

So feeling sure that he would not be able to sit up 
long, I rolled up the mattress and pillows belonging to 
one of the berths, gave it to Mrs. Brand to take on 
deck, and followed with two railway rugs. I told her 
to lay them down very near where he was sitting, and 
I spread one of the rugs over them. 

Bravely as he had struggled, and strong as he thought 
Iiimself, a glance of unmistakable contentment shone in 
his eyes when he saw these preparations. He was 
chilly, though the morning was fine ; and when I had 
arranged his pillows, he came and thankfully laid him- 
self down, uttering a murmur of satisfaction when the 
second rug was thrown over his shoulders. I sent Mrs. 
Brand for another pillow, and he said, — 

‘ d'his is very comfortable ; I am grateful for such 
kind consideration. The air does me good.’ 

‘ I hoj)e you will not be the worse for this removal.’ 

‘ My nurse is grave this morning, she disapproves.’ 

‘ I heard that your chief reason for rising was that 
you could not intrude longer in my cabin.’ 

A smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘A natural feel- 
ing,’ he answered, ‘ and on the whole laudable.’ 

No one was standing near him but myself, the air 
lifted his rug, and I had to kneel down and tuck it 
under his mattress ; while so occupied I said, ‘ I wonder 
what Paul would have done in such a case ; I wonder 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


185 


whether the Primitive Christians risked their health 
out of politeness to ladies.’ 

‘In my opinion if Paul could have seen a grave, 
quiet young lady of the present century tucking a sick 
man up, and lecturing him, he would have been edified 

— as I am.’ 

‘And what would he have thought of the sick 
man ? ’ 

‘Miss Graham, ninety-nine men out of a hundred 
would reply, “ He would have envied him ; ’* I shall 
answer nothing of the sort.’ 

‘ You mean that you shall answer more to the pur^ 
pose?’ 

‘ Ingenious ! by-the-bye, when we talked yesterday 
of the inferiority of the present race of Christians, did 
you include women ? ’ 

‘ Of course.’ 

‘There we differ; I believe there never were such 
women in the world as there are now — never.’ 

‘And how do you feel yourself now, sir?’ asked 
Mrs. Brand, coming up and putting on a dismal face. 

‘ Thank you, I feel quite comfortable, and very hun- 
giy-’ 

In fact his face had regained its old hue ; his eyes 
were bright, and his whole appearance showed how 
much the air had refreshed him. 

Lest he should feel faint again, I asked Mrs. Brand 
not to lose sight of him, and went below to breakfast 

— to order something to eat for him, and to look after 
my dear little pets. 

The elder child was still fretful and very unfriendly ; 
but the little one was perfectly sociable and came on 
deck after breakfast. At first she was very active, and 
put me in constant fear lest she should get into dan- 
ger; but after a good deal of persuasion from Mr. 
Brandon, she came and sat on the corner of his rug and 
listened to some expostulations as to her behavior. 

Tom had caused a carpet to be spread close to the 
mattress ; and the awning was up, for the sun was now 
hot. I took out my book and sat down under it bj 


186 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


my little charge, glad to rest so long as she would let 
me. 

A good many of the lorlorn lumps ot down had 
been brought to Mr. Brandon in a basket, and he and 
Tom were feeding them with bits of raw fish. Tom 
liad explored the Lesser Skellig and was tired of it ; 
but some of the sailors had been allowed to land and 
were plundering' a few of the nests. It seemed cruel 
to take the poor birds, but sailors are very wasteful of 
animal life, and we heard that they were going to make 
a large mallard pie. 

It was perfectly calm, not a ripple on the water, and 
the yacht lay so near the rock that its shadow reached 
to within a few cables’ length of her lee beam. 

The sun beat on the awning, but there was a golden- 
hued shade beneath. I could see the lower ledges of 
the rock where the brooding mallards sat. Sometimes, 
when the sailors roused them, a flock would fly scream- 
ing over our heads. 

My little nurseling crept to my knees as I sat on the 
carpet, laid her head on them and fell fast asleep ; the 
conversation of Tom and Mr. Brandon was so very 
uninteresting that I only listened to it, as it were, with 
one ear. It concerned square, circular, and elliptical 
sterns. Tom was eloquent, our guest attentive. From 
this the subject veered to the different modes of secur- 
ing beam ends to the sides of ships, and Tom brought 
a book and showed some diagrams trying to make him 
dt^cide on the comparative merits of a modern ‘ side- 
cast knee’ and ‘ Sepping’s forked knee and chock.’ I 
knew ne had brought the discussion on himself, but he 
did not quite care to give his mind to it, and as ho 
chose to import me into it, I forthwith selected the 
‘side-cast’ thing because it looked the simplest, but 
thereupon an explanation was begun, which proved to 
such as could understand that the latter of the two was 
preferable. 

Then while I had a fit of inattention, or rather of 
rapt admiration of the golden shadow, the white flap- 
ping canvas, the delightful, pale polish of the water, 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


187 


and the strange, populous rock with foolish ducks stand* 
ing or squatting in rows on every ledge, they began to 
talk of their travels, and Tom, who could hardly ever 
converse with me of anything but passing things and 
mere facts, brought out his opinions freely enougli now 
he had a man to talk to. 

Once or twice I had spoken of our childhood, but it 
seemed to give him pain. ‘You may think of these 
things gladly enough,’ he said, ‘ but I seem to have set 
a long night between myself and the beautiful morn- 
ing. Sometimes I can hardly bear to think of that 
great promise which has come to nothing.’ I knew he 
was speaking of his early genius then, and ventured to 
propose that he should give up his desultory ways and 
study with me, teaching me as he had formerly done, 
but he laughed rather bitterly and answered, ‘No, my 
dear child, I would fain hope that you will never learn 
anything more of me.’ 

He was always most prudishly careful what he said 
before me: but he had a sort of admiring, and yet 
slighting way, of mentioning women, and especially 
the Mexican women, that always made my heart ache, 
I wished he could have spent his early youth with 
women of finer nature and higher soul, such as the 
English or Americans. But while I was mourning 
over this in my mind, and thinking on the singular 
kind of watch that he seemed to keep over me as if I 
was not infinitely better able to take care of my fem- 
inine dignity than he was, Mr. Brandon, who had just 
come from the States, began to talk of them, and I was 
attracted again to the conversation by his saying of the 
American girls, ‘ They often reminded me of a woman 
in a book.’ 

^ How so ? ’ said Tom. 

They held set conversations and expected me to 
keep to the point,’ he answered, laughing ; ‘ that was at 
Boston. I went to several parties there, and felt that I 
must be as intellectual as circumstances would permit.’ 

‘ That is the kind of girl who would frighten me out 
of my wits,’ exclaimed Tom. 


188 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


‘Just as if a girl of eighteen or nineteen was not ten 
times more interesting in herself than anything she 
could tell one,’ proceeded Mr. Brandon. ‘And they 
are so pretty. They talked exceedingly well, too ; not 
in the least as an English girl would talk though, or 
could, if she would.’ 

' ‘ That may be from the different bringing up.’ 

‘Yes, no doubt; one seldom hears an English girl 
talk tolerably on any intellectual subject when she first 
comes out ; but then, there is often a naive and lovely 
ignorance about her, the bloom of childhood hangs 
round her, and she thinks the world is as good as 
herself.’ 

‘ American girls are more clever than we are, perhaps ; 
or they have earlier advantages of going into society and 
talking with intellectual people,’ I said, when he paused. 

He answered me with some trifling compliment. I 
was nineteen then, and by no means liked the notion 
that any bloom of childhood might still hang about me. 
Perhaps a girl, who is nineteen in the year 1871, is not 
often afllicted with this disadvantage, and I need not 
trouble myself about it now, for that conversation took 
place a good many years ago. 

‘No,’ said Tom, in a somewhat oracular manner, ‘I 
do not know why a girl should be expected to talk 
well till she is at least twenty. There cannot be much 
in her ; she may be prettily exacting, or charmingly 
modest, but her attractions must be personal, not in- 
tellectual.’ 

‘ But a girl in a book can talk well at any age, you 
think,’ I remarked to our guest. 

‘ She always does,’ he replied ; ‘ and girlhood in a 
tale is often represented as the embodiment of self- 
possession, combined with a grand, calm, and a wide 
experience which,’ he added, and hesitated a little — • 
‘ which I have never met with in real life, and I am 
very glad of it ! I presume to prefer the real thing.’ 

He said this as if he perceived that I found my youth, 
or rather my youthful appearance, what Mrs. Bell was 
in the habit of calHng ‘a dispensation.’ Something 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


189 


painful that as ordained, and could not be escaped, 
l^ut I believe I only thought this, because I was sensi- 
tive on the point myself. I had hoped that the tan of 
the sea would make me look older ; but, on the con- 
trary, it gave a little bloom to my cheeks, which, 
though becoming, did not age me by a day. I took up 
the little book of directions, by which I was tatting a 
collar, and occupied myself with it while they went on 
talking. It was a time of profound peace, and yet 
they tortured my heart by all sorts of gloomy prog- 
nostics, such as I frequently read in newspapers, but 
had not yet heard discussed by the living voice. Then 
they turned to home politics, and there, of course every- 
thing was going to rack, for their party was not in. 
As girls are not able to converse, I had not intended to 
have anything further to say ; but at last they got so 
very lugubiious, that I was impelled to exclaim, turn- 
ing to Mr. Brandon, — 

‘ You speak as if freedom was some great anomaly.’ 

‘ So it is,’ he answered quietly, but with an air of full 
conviction. 

‘ And almost certain to be snatched away ? ’ 

‘ So I think.’ 

‘ But why ? ’ 

‘ Because intelligence does not keep pace with it — • 
the common notion of freedom is leave to each indi- 
vidual to do just as he likes.’ 

‘ And does not everybody think that desirable ? ’ 

‘Am I obliged to think as everybody thinks — mayn’t 
1 be original ? ’ 

‘I am not at all sure that you may! ’ 

‘ That’s right, Dolly,’ said Tom ; ‘ what a tyrant you 
'^'ould be if you might reign.’ 

‘I assure you I admire liberty,’ said Mr. Brandon, 
laughing. ‘ I wish that we should all have as much as 
we know what to do with. What we were both say- 
ing that we hated was that individualism which too 
much personal liberty is apt to lead to, and which tends 
to bring in the loss of national liberty and power. 
People ought to be able to think of themselves as part 


190 


OFF THE SKELLIG8, 


of son e great whole, and they are losing the ability to 
do so.’ 

‘ It is better, you think, to feel ourselves to be part of 
something great than the whole of something small?’ 

‘ Certainly ; the secular use of a church and one 
great use of a government is to give this feeling, and 
prevent society from breaking up into units.’ 

‘ Still you make me feel as if nothing was secure.’ 

‘ Could there be a better feeling if things are inse- 
cure ? ’ 

‘No; but suppose they are not, and suppose I think 

BO?’ 

‘ Why, then no harm is done ; you will not sleep less 
sweetly for other people’s talk; you will take just as 
much pains in working this little collar as if I had not 
said a word.’ 

‘But so she would,’ said Tom, rising and laughing, 
‘ if she believed it all and knew it was true.’ 

They would not talk seriously, so I answered — 

‘ In my opinion, men are quite as particular about 
their collars and their neck-ties as we are.’ 

‘ I am,’ said Tom ; ‘ but, then, in spite of all we have 
said, I believe the country will come right in the end. 
If I did not, you should see what a figure I would go.’ 

‘ And you need not look at my neck-tie. Miss Gra- 
ham ; it but ill represents my feelings. The captain’s 
valet tied this killing knot.’ 

‘ Well, Mr. Brandon, I will not judge you by to-day; 
but if you can assure me that when you do your ties 
yourself you are quite indifferent how they look, I will 
believe you.’ 

‘ And think me a patriot ? ’ 

‘Yes; or else that you are untidy.’ 

At this moment the boatswain came and touched his 
hat to Tom. ‘Tide’s just on the turn, sir.’ 

‘ I must go, Brandon,’ said Tom. ‘ I want to see the 
lighthouse, and this is the best time.’ He went below 
to take some luncheon, and our guest said, — 

‘ What is it that displeases you so much in our poli- 
tics, Miss Graham ? ’ 


OFF TEE SKELL108. 191 

I answered, ‘ It was not so much what you said about 
politics as what you alluded to about religion.’ 

‘I did not say that I thought our religion was in 
danger.’ 

‘No; but you would not have said what you did 
nnlesf you had thought so.’ 

A smile of amusement played about the comers of 
his mouth. ‘ The inference is fair,’ he said ; ‘ and may 
I ask what you think ? ’ 

I began to think that I did not know what to do 
with this conversation ; but I had brought it on myself^ 
and I could not stir, for the child’s head was on my 
lap, and she still slept soundly. It was not so much 
because he had said that girls could not talk, however, 
that I felt a difficulty in answering. It was more because 
he did not look quite the same man that he had appeared 
to be hitherto. The red face had become of a more 
natural color, and the swelled nose was now of a very 
respectable shape. I began to perceive, besides, not 
only by his looks, but by his whole manner, that he 
could not be nearly so old a man as I had thought. 

I went on working, and there was silence ; till, at 
last, looking up, I saw that his eyes were on my face, 
so I said, ‘ Perhaps I have no very settled opinion, or 
perhaps, if I have, it is not worth anything.’ 

He repeated gently and not at all uncourteously, 
‘ Perhaps.’ And I began to wish myself away, for I had 
only imported myself into the conversation to express 
my dislike to his opinions. Now, it seemed, I must 
give some reason for the dislike. 

‘ It seems to me,’ I said at last, ‘ that if things are finn 
and settled, and fixed, one should not discuss them as 
if they were not, because that is one way of unsettling 
them.’ 

‘ What,’ he answered, ‘ if I set my back against a 
church-wall and push, and say, “ I don’t believe this wall 
is firm,” will my action make the wall come down unless 
my opinion is correct?’ 

‘No; but I want Tom to think of the church walls 
as strong, because his religion consists in going imidA 


192 


OFF THE SKELLiaS 


them now and tben. As he said himself the other day, 
his presenting himself there is as much as to say, 
^ Here I am, your reverence \ if you can do anything 
for me, now^s your time,” Tliat be thinks is enough.’ 

‘But be is to respect the church walls, is he not, be- 
cause there is something inside them ? ’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ I wanted to remind him of that. I said the form 
culy existed for the sake of the spirit. It is the vi&i))l» 
part of religion; but surely it has no significance if 
there is no spirit. Afterwards, you know, be shifted 
his ground a little.’ 

‘Yes, dear fellow, be did not wish you to think that 
he accepted what be calls the whole system of dogma, 
and be remarked that the tendency of modern thought 
»vas towards freeing the mind from the bonds of dogma 
and form.’ 

‘ And so then I shifted my ground, and tried to show 
him what a terrible mistake he was making against 
himself, if he made bis religion to consist in form, and 
yet argued that it was not binding on him I A true 
man never wants to be freed from a binding form for 
any other reason than that be may yield himself more 
fully to the spirit.’ 

‘ Still,’ I said, reverting to the cause of my discon- 
tent, ‘ I wish you had contradicted him when he said 
that the church was in danger.’ 

‘ I could not. A visible church is always in danger ; 
the invisible only is Immortal, like its Head.’ 

‘ 1 sympathize very much with Tom,’ was my answer, 

‘ though I never had any difficulties myself.’ 

‘Of course not,’ he answered gently; ‘Christianity 
always suits us well enough so long as we suit it. A 
mere mental difficulty is not hard to deal with. Did 
you see the ducks yesterday sitting by their thousands, 
every one with her face to the wind, so that it blew all 
their feathers the riglit way. Their work went on just 
as well in spite of the wind, so will ours if we face it, 
Tne difficulty that cannot be fiiced is of another sort. 
It is not often a thought that makes religion void. 


OFF THE SHELL ms. 


m 


With most of us it is not reason makes faith hard, but 
life. A great many people think of religion as if it 
was a game that they had to play with an August Op- 
ponent — a game at which both could not win, and } et 
they actually think they can play it unfairly. They 
want to cheat. But in that grand and awful game, it 
cannot be said that either wins unless both do.’ 

I heard Tom come up, and wondered what he would 
think if he could know what I had said of him ; but 
little Nannette that moment waking, I asked Mr. Bran- 
don to come below, that his arm might be attended to, 
and he did not receive the unwelcome suggestion with 
a very good grace, for he knew it frightened me to at- 
tend to it. I could hardly help laughing at his rueful 
face, when he said, — 

‘If it had only been the other arm, I could havo 
looked after it myself.’ 

Tom now appeared, after his luncheon, and when he 
heard the state of the case, he helped to haul up the 
uatient, who, when he was on his feet (the said feet 
being encased in slippers on account of blistered solos), 
took a few steps backward and forward, and looked, 
about him exultingly. He had a well-built and very 
graceful figure, and his scorched features, as I said 
before, were improving. 

But Brand had cut ofi* his singed hair and nearly all 
his whiskers. This added somewhat of the air of a con- 
vict to his former charms. 

‘ I must be an impostor, after all,’ he observed, stand- 
ing erect. ‘ There seems to be nothing the matter with 
me. Neck a little stiff; that’s nothing; hands blistered 
— so they ought to be ; nobody need care about that.’ 

‘ If any fellow dares to call you an invalid,’ said Tom, 
‘he had better keep his distance.’ 

I heard this as I ran down with little Nannetto m 
my arms to give her to Mrs. Brand, while I prepared 
for my patient, who presently came below. His arm 
was very much better, and it would have been disgrace- 
ful if I had shown any fear. 

My uncle presently came on board, in a beautiful lit* 
9 M 


194 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


tie cuttei, a hired boat. He had been that day to Kil- 
larney with Mr. Crayshaw, who had need of some 
temporary help as regarded money matters; and he 
had heard the last of the poor man whom Tom had 
picked off the bowsprit. It seems he had gone down 
to plunder the passengers’ cabins of any valuables he 
could find ; and his love of drink overcoming him, ho 
had stayed below till the boat and the raft were off. 
He was an acrobat, one of the troupe. He had never 
seemed quite to recover his drunken fit, and that morn- 
ing he had been taken with some kind of stroke, and 
had died. 

We all had luncheon in the chief cabin, and after 
that my patient, with a little help, got on deck again ; 
and when I followed some time after, I found Mrs. 
Brand approaching him with a huge nosegay, and the 
children with her, dragging a basket of flowers between 
them. 

Fresh flowers were luxuries belonging to the shore 
that my uncle could never dispense with. Brand had 
orders on no occasion to land without getting some, if 
he could ; and he had been scouring the country for 
these and fresh vegetables. They scented the whole 
yacht, as she lay almost at rest on the water — a lovely 
little heap of sweet-williams, pinks, larkspurs, roses, 
and ferns. 

Mr. Brandon was so stiff that he could hardly turn 
on his mattress ; and the children, in their eagerness to 
display their flowers, overthrew their basket upon him, 
to the great scandal of Mrs. Brand, who said they made 
him look like a cerpse strewed all over for the burial. 
They then sat by him, and began to gather them up in 
their fat little hands. 

‘These have all tumbled out of their little house ! ’ 
exclaimed Nannette, showing him a double pink whose 
petals had burst the calyx. ‘Put them in again, will 

W?’ 

‘ What a fool of a flower,’ he answered. 

‘ Sir,’ said Mrs. Brand, in a low tone of remonstraijc.e, 
‘it’s one of the works of God.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI08, 


195 


‘You don’t think, do you,’ he replied, ‘that any 
flower came first from the hands of its Maher, unable 
to bloom without splitting. This flower has been spoilt 
by the gardener’s cultivation, as they call it. The 
lovely wild flowers, you know, are the flowers that 
God i^ade.’ 

‘ Here’s another,’ said Frances : ‘ all the little men 
have jumped out.’ 

Mr. Brandon asked for thread, and began to tie up 
the broken flowers. ‘ This comes,’ he observed, ‘ from 
leaving these beautiful things to half-educated men, 
who have a vulgar longing to make them big, but no 
sense of grace or fitness.’ 

‘I have often thought how ugly the large modern 
rosebuds are,’ I said. ‘Some of them before they 
begin to expand are as large as walnuts, as heavy and 
almost as hard.’ 

‘ Yes,’ he answered ; ‘ if you took one by the stalk, 
you might kill a baby with it, swinging it against the 
little creature’s temples.’ 

‘ Still it is difficult to know where to stop. How can 
we tell when a flower has reached the point when we 
should cease to cultivate?’ 

‘ We may always be sure a flower has been over-cuU 
tivated, if Jies hnrd and has a dead body. What 
can be more unsightly Uum the soppy, mouldy head of 
a doubly quilled dahlia ? Ihe more you double a wall- 
flower, the more debased it becomes, gets coarse, loses 
its scent, and when it dies has no notion what to do 
with itself. But how lovely is the single passion-flower 1 
It does not die at all, but expands a pale splendor of 
blue and green ; and when it has looked long enough 
at the light, it closes, shrinks back again into the green 
calyx, and, like another bud, retires. Then the gum 
cystus, while her flowers are still perfectly clean, and 
fresh, sheds the petals ; they drift away, and in an hour 
or two are invisible. The iris retreats in the night, and 
hides within the sheath after its one day of glory. 
Then the new flower comes out at dawn, expands and 
beautifully covers the place. When there is a littcs 


196 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


a tearing away of overladened boughs, or an unsightly 
lump of decay in the garden, it is a sign that we have 
not understood or respected the natures we have been 
playing with.’ 

All this while he held the flowers together with the 
hand he could use, and little Frances tied in the petals 
with darning-cotton. 

‘ Here are some feather-hyacinths,’ I said ; ‘ surely it is 
late for them.’ 

‘ No, ma’am,’ answered Mrs. Brand ; ‘ I have some 
below that I bought a week ago at Weymouth. I 
went on shore there, you know, to see the horsemanship 
and the dwarf.’ 

‘Yes, I remember.’ 

‘ And the stout lady,’ she continued, with enthusiasm. 
‘ She had a bunch of flowers in her belt ; and Brand 
thought it would be very interesting to have them ; so 
he said, if she would sell them, he was quite agreeable 
to buy. They were sprinkled with the sawdust of the 
circus, but quite fresh. I’ll fetch them up for you to 
see.’ 

‘ Fancy the desecration,’ said Mr. Brandon, as she re- 
tired — ‘ the sawdust, the gas, the circus.’ 

‘She thinks no harm, but she would consider it 
wrong to talk of vulgar flowers.’ 

‘Yes; but taking flowers into a circus seems to me 
much the same as if Solomon had used the sacred 
anointing oil that was left after his consecration to 
grease his chariot wheels with. Look, Frances, here is 
a heart’s-ease. Do you see its beautiful little face ? ’ 

‘It’s laughing at me,’ said the child, looking earnestly 
at the flower. ‘ Kiss it, then, Nannette.’ 

‘ Is it happy ? ’ asked Nannette. 

‘ Oh, yes, and very good.’ What sympathy children 
have with nature ! — till education clouds it. How dis- 
tinct the little face is in this flower, as if when the tirst 
heart’s-ease was fashioned there had been a thought in 
the heart of the great Maker of the first child’s face 
that should look into it ages after. Flowers always 
seem to me to be the lovely fancies of God — things 


OFF TEE 8XELLIG8. 


197 


that, a« it were, He made for His own pleasure — for 
Himself, as well as for us. 

‘ Surely you impute to God our foelings.’ 

‘ Why not ? We feel His great difference only too 
well. Every year God becomes more marvellous and 
more remote. It is the likeness that draws us to Him. 
It is surely no irreverence to say, since He has brought 
a sense of the beauty of His work into our hearts, that 
He derives some splendid joy from it also. Indeed the 
strange, sweet old words, ^ God saw everything that lie 
Lad made, and behold it was very good,” seem to point 
almost to the majestic movement of a tender pride.’ 

I left the children after this, going below to Uncle 
Hollin, to take my second lesson in navigation. He 
advised me to write up my log. I had made two entiles, 
and he commended me, and expressed his satisfaction 
about things in generaL He had not found me such a 
trouble as he expected ; in short, he might as well say 
(for it was true) that he had not found me any trouble 
at all. 

This was very agreeable news ; and it was nice to 
know also that a slight breeze had sprung up, so that 
we could get away from the Skelligs. I did not like 
being too near those awful rocks. When tlie red sun- 
set glowed upon them that evening, they had a most 
strange and weird appearance ; ‘they seemed to be half 
smothered in a red haze, and to sit up in the water like 
two great dogs threatening us. The wind continued 
to freshen, and I, finding myself perfectly well, began 
to consider that the life suited me. 

I sat enjoydng the fine weather. An old brig, crowd- 
ing all sail, looked picturesque enough as we approached 
her, and, venturing to admire, I was met with a storm 
of abuse. ^ A rotten old tub ! she trembles at every 
eea that strikes her bows, and weeds are streaming 
from her bends,’ &e. I found that I had better talk as 
little as possible on all matters connected with shipping. 
It seemed that I had a natui*al inaptitude for picking 
up nautical language, for whenever I used a sea phrase 
it was sure to be a wrong one. 


198 


OFF TEE SKELLIQ8. 


CHAPTER Xm. 

T he wind continued to be quite in our favor, and 
that day and the next passed very pleasantly ; but 
I found so much to do for the children that 1 
could not be long on deck, excepting when they were 
brought up to take some exercise. 

Sometimes the little creatures chose to come and sit 
by the mattress, and tell Mr. Brandon concerning their 
various new clothes and of the toy-ships and boats that 
continually came from the people as offerings. Nan- 
nette generally walked about with a brig in full sail 
under one arm, and a basket of ducklings under the 
other. Frances had a pinafore full of little boats, and 
when their masts were broken, she expected him to put 
them in again. 

He was an odd man, and as he gained strength a kind 
of suppressed energy showed itself in his well-governed 
voice, and his dancing, penetrating eyes looked more 
like independent live things than features of his steady 
face. His other features were well under, command, 
and he had a clear, manly voice, very different in its 
tones from the soft depths of Tom’s, but quite as 
pleasant in its way, and as I moved about with my 
work, following the children, I often heard every word 
of his part in the dialogue, when Tom’s was only a soft 
murmur of sound. 

He was often fond of talking of the world as a w^hole, 
and the land in it, as if one could dibble in men here 
and there, just as in a garden one may dibble in vege- 
tables. 

He had been buying bits of land in various parts ; he 
• had a family in his eye ’ that would just suit his last 
purchase, and he used frequently to argue and dispute 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


199 


with Tom about the best thing to be done for the Eng 
lish lowei* classes ; they always differed about almost 
everything, but yet they seemed never tired of sharp- 
ening their wits against each others notions. 

Almsgiving, in his opinion, was, as at present con- 
ducted, a mean, vulgar vice. The world ought to have 
done with almsgiving long ago. ‘ Beggars ! what’s to 
be done with the beggars, do you say ? How dare we 
have any beggars ? ’ 

He had taken out a man and his wife to the Pampas, 
he told us, when he was only three-and-twenty. Then 
he went to Rio and Bahia to amuse himself and look 
about him, promising them that if they did not like the 
life before them when they had tried it, he would fetch 
them back again. It appeared by the story that they 
did not like it — at least, the husband brought the wife 
on board, and begged him to take them home again. 
He admitted that this was the most awkward thing 
that had ever happened to him, but when the steamer 
had got too far for any remedy to be found, he discov- 
ered that the man had escaped and gone back to Rosa- 
rio, leaving the wife by her own connivance on his 
hands. 

‘ I took her to Southampton,’ he said, ‘ and bribed her 
never to show her face in our parts any more. Then I 
went home to my step-father, feeling very small.’ 

‘ And were not cured of that form of philanthropy ? ’ 
said Tom. 

‘ Certainly not ; almsgiving is not open to me. If a 
man thinks he wants half-a-crown, and I am base enough 
to give it to him, instead of helping him to his inheri- 
tance that he really does want, there is nothing bad 
that I do not deserve. I must win his confidence, and 
by fair means, or by wholesome scolding and driving, 
sweep him or buffet him for his own good out of the 
country. Hang him, why he is to be an absentee more 
than an Irish landlord ? Drive the rascal to his estate, 
and let him live on it.’ 

‘ Hang him ! ’ does not sound a particularly charita- 
ble or gentle thing to say, yet this queer man said it 


200 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


with a softening in his voice that was almost ten- 
der. 

‘ There is no cant that I hate like the cant about res- 
ignation,’ he exclaimed the next day, after he bad b^ien 
telling us some things about the London poor. 

‘ Sui-ely it is a Chiistian virtue,’ I remarked. 

‘Yes, I suppose there is such a virtue; but it must 
be rare. I never had any occasion to exercise it. I am 
not presumptuous enough to think so.’ 

‘ Indeed ! ’ 

‘Most of the pain or misfortune that I have gone 
thiough has been from my own fault. I have been re- 
pentant, and have tried to take the consequences as 
well as I could. The rest — ’ 

‘ Well, the rest ? ’ said Tom. 

‘The rest I look upon as discipline that ought to 
make, and is intended to make a better man of 
me.’ 

‘ And which of the two do you consider this burn on 
your arm to be ? ’ 

‘ Neither. I consider that I bought a certain thing 
and paid for it. I got it dirt cheap. Crayshaw and I 
went below to fetch up the two children, but a rush of 
burning hot air came after us, and we had to lie down 
with our mouths to the floor. I wanted my child’s 
head (Nannette’s) to be close to the floor, and yet not 
to touch it, because it was so dreadfully hot, so I put 
my arm under it, and of course got burnt, for I had to 
lean my weight on it while I supported her with the 
other till I could rise and run ofi*.’ 

‘ That was the first time you went below, then,’ 

‘Yes, I think so. The infant was in what had been 
the mother’s cabin. She died when we had only been 
at sea two days. The heat did not penetrate there so 
soon. The women had brought out the two elder 
children and their clothes, and had carried them to 
their own part of the ship, where they gave them some- 
thing to fiat, and dressed them. They then put them 
into the berths ready dressed, but all on a sudden wi 
had to fetch them up.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


201 


Nannette at this moment was brought on deck with 
a slice of cake in her hand. 

‘ Give me some of that,’ said Mr. Brandon, as Mrs. 
Brand set her down. ‘ I want some — it looks so 
nice.’ 

The child came close to him, and turning her cake 
round looked at it, and hesitated. ‘ There’s a big jake 
down there,’ she observed. 

‘ But I want some of yours,’ he insisted. ‘ Do spare 
a little bit for me.’ Whereupon she selected a partic- 
ularly small plum, which she picked out, and put into 
his mouth, saying, ‘ There I that’s plenty.’ 

‘I am always charmed by the selfishness of child- 
hood,’ said Tom, ‘ it is quite touching in its pretty un- 
consciousness.’ 

The little white-headed thing went on eating with 
great satisfaction, but presently she noticed that my 
uncle, who had come and seated himself close to us, was 
beckoning her with his finger, and she instantly got 
up, and breaking oflT a good-sized piece of her cake, held 
it out to him, saying, ‘ Does ’ou want a piece *? — here.’ 

‘ Look,’ said Tom, as the old man took the child on 
his knee, and they began to smile at one another, ‘ you 
see he has won what you could not earn.’ 

* But they never love us,’ I said, ‘ as we love them.’ 

* No; it is always the same story ; they receive the 
love of one generation and they pay it to another. 
That little creature does not love Brandon any the 
more because he snatched her out of the fire; but 
twenty years hence, perhaps, she will love some other 
child all the better for the sake of that dimly-remem- 
bered day.’ 

‘ My dear fellow,’ exclaimed Mr. Brandon, ‘ she can 
have no intelligent remembrance of it even now.’ 

‘Nanny,’ said my uncle, who had heard the remark, 
‘ Where’s the raft ? Who took care of Nanny on the 
raft ? ’ 

The child pointed at Mr. Brandon with her finger, 

‘ He was very naughty that other day,’ she said, shak* 
ing her head, ‘ but he’s good now.’ 

9 * 


202 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


Naughty, was he! I can hardly think it. Why 
what did he do ? ’ 

‘ He wouldn’t show me the ducks.’ 

‘She means the cormorants,’ said Mr. Brandon. 
‘Yes, I believe it’s a true bill! In the dead calm wo 
saw a few cormorants feeding not far off. They sat so 
low in the water that every little ripple passed over 
their backs. Only the head and neck of each was vis- 
ible, like the stalk and bud of a water-lily, or a steam- 
vessel all under water excepting the funnel.’ 

‘You noticed that at such a time?’ I enquired. 

‘Yes. ‘Crayshaw thought at first they were water- 
snakes. We had often, of course, seen cormorants be- 
fore, but we were then so absolutely on a level with the 
water that they looked differently. I leaned against 
the little mast, and held this thing up to watch them, 
and no doubt I put her down sooner than she liked.’ 

‘ How keenly, when the mind is strained, one observes 
all sorts of unimportant things.’ 

‘Yes, and their crowding in prevents the important 
ones from doing more than taking their turn. I never 
noticed so many things in my life as during that calm. 
The rare pale colors so fickle and so tender, that bloomed 
across the water here and there, the slightly ruffled 
patches of desert, where a flaw of wind was fainting 
away, and leaving it all sparkling like flocks of wings ; 
outlandish drifts of sallow weed floating about, and 
seeming to be attracted by our raft.’ 

‘ I am never so much alive as when I expect to die,’ 
said Tom. 

‘Yes, I was intensely alive then; I remember dread- 
ing to think what a world of killing I should want be- 
fore I could give in ! ’ 

‘ Don’t, man,’ said my uncle, and then went on to 
Tom ; ‘ you were nei^er in such danger in your life as 
when you crossed under that ship’s bows the other 
night.’ 

‘ I did not feel it. Of course I should have felt the 
raft. 'What a bore it is, Brandon, that the dull, and 
uneducated, and unimaginative, should possess a dogged 


OFF TUB SKBLLIGS. 


203 


contempt for danger, and a kind of stupid fearlessness 
that we are never to have. I do not see how a highly 
imaginative man can have much animal courage.’ 

‘ He has more resources,’ observed Mr. Brandon. 

‘ And more pluck and daring,’ said Uncle llollin. 
‘ Whatever name you may give to his courage, it gener- 
ally serves his turn, boy ! ’ 

‘And,’ continued Tom, ‘not only does the liigldy 
organized man perceive danger most keenly, but he feels 
pain most when the blow comes. Unless he is excited 
— of course he cannot feel either fear or pain then; 
certainly not the fear of death.’ 

‘ That is only because excitement takes us out of our- 
selves,’ said Mr. Brandon; ‘makes us forget ourselves 
as individuals, and become part of the company we are 
standing up with to strive. The familiar fact that indi- 
viduals fear death often makes us take for granted that 
death is dreaded by the race. I do not believe it is. It 
is regarded as the great conclusion which we feel to be 
wanted. In fact, though death be an enemy, I believe the 
human race instinctively feels that it could not do with 
out it, so long as it has crime, or even imperfection.’ 

Uncle Rollin, when he said this, looked both sur- 
prised and displeased, and he went on, — 

‘And even as individuals — of course, none of us 
would like to die now, or soon, or at any specified time, 
and yet, if we were told to-day that we were all going 
to live for five hundred years, I don’t think we should 
like it. We should get restless and fretful as children 
do if they pass the time when they should sleep.’ 

‘ But,’ I said, ‘ they scarcely ever like being put to bed.’ 

‘ Any more than we do,’ said Tom ; ‘ that may be less 
because we fear to go to sleep, than because we know 
so little of the predicted waking.’ 

‘ I mean,’ continued Mr. Brandon, ‘ that I think we 
wish for more in life, rather than for more of it; and 
that if it were to contain no new elements, I do not 
think the human race (if it might consider the question 
for itself as a whole), would care to have it lengthened 

‘ I don’t agree with you,’ said Tom. 


204 


OFF THE SKELL1G!5. 


‘No/ said Uncle E-ollin, ‘nor I, if the proportions of 
youth and age were to be the same as at present. Some 
people,’ he continued, ‘are fond of making out that a 
future state is to be very like this, only better, and that 
we are to have back again what we have lost here. I 
don’t agree to that, either. We want something better 
and different, not better and like.' 

‘ But we wish to see our dead again,’ I sai 1. 

‘ Ay, cliild, but they did not satisfy us here, why 
should they there? I consider that for a permanent 
life we want many new powers, and I trust the Almighty 
that we shall have them — one of them is the power to 
be unwearied by possession and continuance.’ 

He rose as he spoke, and, giving his finger to the 
child, walked off with her and I followed. I thought 
he did not seem to be in such good spirits as usual, so I 
proposed my usual remedy, — a lesson in navigation. 
He fell into the trap directly ; and for more than an 
hour we worked away together. Then we came on 
deck, he to give some directions to the captain of the 
yacht, and [ to find Tom and Mr. Brandon arguing 
away as if their lives depended on their decisions. It 
was delightful to see Tom so animated, and I was 
charmed with our guest for making him so. 

A vehement, dogmatical man, he seemed, and though 
he lay on his mattress with one arm in a sling, tliere 
was a fulness of life and an enthusiasm of feeling about 
him which made him appear more able-bodied than we 
did. He was prodigal of his speech, did not save up 
his thoughts as if he expected them one day to fail. 
He was not afraid to be fully alive now, lest he might 
flag afterwards. With him it was always springtide 
and full moon. 

It was about one o’clock; we dined at four — too 
early to make much of a luncheon, but I thought some 
slices of cake, such as little Nannette had eaten, and 
some sandwiches would not be amiss, besides my ])ii- 
tient Avas always hungry. So I left little Frances under 
his charge, and said I would go and order a picnic 
lunch to be spread on deck. 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


205 


I certainly did not mean any harm; so when Tom 
followed me, as I was proceeding to Brand, the steward, 
to give my orders, I was quite surprised to be accosted 
with — ‘Dorothea! What can you mean by waiting 
on that man as if he was a superior being ? Biscuits, 
too, that you were going to carry on deck yourself, I 
do believe — give them to me ; I would much rather 
take them to him than that you should.’ 

‘ But why am I not to attend to our guest ? ’ 

‘You are too polite, too much interested. You listen 
to his talk as if nothing could be so important.’ 

‘ So do you, Tom.’ 

‘ You need not laugh and make a joke of the matter. 
I wish you would trouble yourself less about him ; he 
does not return the compliment, and has quite a good 
enough opinion of himself without any spoiling from 
the ladies.’ 

‘ Really, Tom, I think your alarm is quite uncalled 
for. I am never likely to see him again after he leaves 
the yacht.’ 

I gave him the plate, and remained below till after 
dinner. Our guest had never shown any desire to talk 
to me. I went and came, and it scarcely seemed to at- 
tract his observation ; but 1 did observe his presence 
or absence, and did wish that he should be conifortable. 
Surely, Tom could not dislike my being interested in 
an acquaintance. 

However, I acted on his words, and did not see Mr. 
Brandon any more that day, excepting at tea-time ; but 
sent the children on deck with Mrs. Brand. We had 
light, baffling winds all night, and made very little way ; 
but the next morning, after breakfast, the wind changed, 
iiid I came on deck just to look about me. As usual, 
Tom and Mr. Brandon were arguing and discussing all 
sorts of things, and I was foolish enough to resent their 
taking no notice of me, and chose to go below, when I 
had an argument all to myself and with myself ; it con- 
cerned manners, morals, Tom, and a sea life, and it 
lasted till dinner-time without coming to any decision. 

Mr. Brandon was much better that day, and, instead 


206 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


of lying on liis mattress, paced the deck with Tom, and 
played with the children. My uncle sat a good deal 
reading, while I worked, and Tom now and then came 
and talked with me. 

So the day passed. ‘You see,’ observed Tom, — i 
‘ you see he does not care for the society of ladies. So 
you need not trouble yourself about him.’ 

As if out of mere perversity, Mr. Brandon, not five 
minutes after that, came into the cabin. 

‘ Miss Graham, we are within sight of Southampton ; 
will you come on deck ? ’ 

-‘No, thank you, I am busy; but if you are going on 
deck, will you take this shawl to little Nannette?’ 

He went away, but in five minutes appeared again. 

‘ It is a superb evening ; indeed, you had better come. 
You must be dull sitting here all alone.’ 

‘ But I have my work to finish.’ 

‘You are very industrious. This looks like some- 
thing for one of my little orphans.’ 

It was the frill of a mantle for Frances. 

As I went on working, he sat down near me, took up 
the other end of the long frill, and inspected it. 

‘ This is what you call whipping, is it not ? What a 
comfort needlework seems to be to ladies.’ 

‘Yes, we could not live without it.’ 

I believe I spoke more energetically than I had in- 
tended, for he looked up surprised. I was going to ex- 
plain my words, when he said, ‘And yet the needlework 
that I see most ladies do is generally some trivial thing, 
not ennobled by being of much use — not like this.’ 

‘ But better than nothing.’ 

Instead of answering, he suddenly changed the sub- 
ject. 

‘You must find this a desultory life. It is difficult 
to find settled employment at sea, and habitual life at 
sea is surely dull.’ 

‘ It has not become habitual with me yet.’ 

‘ It is circumscribed — a great change from the free- 
dom of the shore.’ 

‘No; it is liberty compared with my land life—* 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 207 

freedom, and freshness, and change. On shore I wag 
at school, and had no holidays. I was not happy.’ 

He looked attentively at me. ‘And yon have been 
happy the last few clays, I am sure of it.’ Again he 
inspected the frill. ‘You are happy in having this to 
make. I do not pity you at all for the trouble you are 
taking. You are happy in having those two little 
girls to watch over. I have known better all the time 
than to pity you when I have seen you running after 
them, while they tried to get into danger. You are 
even happy, and I know it, in having this arm of mine 
to look to. I am sure you will be sorry when we are 
gone away, an cl you have the yacht to yourself, and 
that old uncle of yours to laugh at all you say and 
think how clever you are.’ 

‘ Perfectly true. I shall be sorry.’ 

‘ What a comfort we have been to you ! ’ 

‘Yes; when you are gone I must look out for some 
other people to supply your places.’ 

‘What, sail about in search of another raft! only 
think of depending on shipwrecks for one’s happiness 
and pleasure. No — no, don’t flatter yourself that 
such good fortune will happen twice to the same 
person.’ 

‘ 1 cannot imagine why you should think I expect or 
wish it. I should have been extremely happy before 
we fell in with the raft if it had not been for that terri- 
ble sea-sickness.’ 

‘ I do not doubt it.’ 

‘ And when you are gone the sickness will be over.’ 

‘ Fortunate circumstance, calculated to let a man see 
that even with the advantage of a wounded arm, a sea 
life can wash him clean out of a lady’s memory.’ 

We both laughed; but I did not suppose that I 
should forget him, and he did not speak as if he cared 
whether I remembered him or not. 

‘You have not been long yachting about, then?’ he 
presently said. 

‘ No, a very little while.’ 

‘And you like it?’ 


208 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


‘ I like it for the present. It is adventurous — besides 
I really sometimes feel that it is a glorious thing only to 
be alive --but to be alive and see this world and have 
time to learn and time to think r ’ 

‘Yes, that is just what I feel,’ he interrupted ; ‘ but the 
thing is to keep one’s self up to such a state of mind 
and body and not grow morbid and weak and discon- 
tented. I suppose that in that school of yours they 
gave you no lessons on the art of being whole-hearted, 
cheerful, and joyous ? ’ 

‘ O no.’ 

‘ The more shame for them ; then you must educate 
yourself in that matter.’ 

‘ But I have often heard it said that the truest hap- 
piness is unconscious. And don’t you think that to be 
often thinking and reasoning about it is in itself a mor- 
bid thing ? ’ 

‘Are any of us who have come to years of discretion 
in that childlike state of unconscious happiness ? ’ 

‘I am not.’ 

‘Nor I; but I am a great deal braver, cheerfuller, 
and heartier since I put myself to school to myself, and 
learnt the habit of being as a general rule in good 
spirits. I think, therefore, that to reason about the 
matter, if one does it rightly, is not morbid.’ 

‘ I am fond of learning new things. I should like to 
teach myself this. What was the first lesson you gave 
yourself in the art ? ’ 

‘I believe the first thing that set me thinking was an 
anecdote of a great actor, who complained that when 
he was acting in tragedy he became devoured by mel- 
ancholy. While he was studying the character of 
“Hamlet” he lost his health from mental depression. 
Mournful and heartrending ideas suggested themselves 
to him, and he could not shake off the bearing that be- 
longed to his hero. It became natural to him. After 
that I met with a very pleasant woman, a German 
actress, who told me she had completely spoilt her tem- 
pw by acting viragos. On the most trifling occasions she 
c^kuld put herself into a fearful rage. It had ceased to be 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


209 


acting with her ; she had so studied the passion of anger 
and imitated its manifestations that they got the better 
of her — and habit, at last, had made her a perfect fire- 
brand.’ 

‘Don’t you think she exaggerated?’ 

‘No ; I suppose not. It was at a Swiss hotel that 1 
saw her first; something put her out ; it was a very hot 
night and she flung her fan at one of the waiters — she 
told me this afterwards by way of excuse. I thought 
she was mad when I saw her do it; you never saw such 
an air of fury — her husband, a stout matter-of-fact 
man, observed that it was very inconvenient. 

‘ And on that hint you began your own education ? ’ 

‘ That, and the observation of how involuntary sym- 
pathy makes other people imitate our moods and reflect 
them back upon us.’ 

‘ Still it is an odd thing to set to work to aggravate 
one’s self into being happy.’ 

‘ I declare to you that I have tried it,’ he answered, 
laughing : ‘ and I see you know what I mean. It is as 
easy as aggravating one’s self into being unhappy ! You 
know how unfashionable it is now to be enthusiastic.’ 

‘ I have read in books that it is. I know it is con- 
sidered bad taste to be much astonished. People will 
not express great admiration even for very beautiful 
things, lest that should be thought a proof that they are 
not already familiar with all the most beautiful things 
in the world. So they think it grand to appear bored.’ 

‘ That was nothing but imitation at first,’ he answered. 
‘ It arose from the misfortune of a few fashionable peo- 

E le, who were punished for their sins against all things 
eautiful and true and surprising, by being no longer 
able to enjoy anything heartily, or admire anything 
overwhelmingly, or believe anything devoutly. The 
consequence was that people who have seen next to 
nothing, and are not at all fashionable, try to begin as 
the others left ofi*. They are so ashamed of enthusiasm, 
and have so schooled themselves to put down all eo 
static emotion, that the sentiment of awe has almost 
died out of their hearts; their sense of the sublime 

X 


210 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


fades from being kept too long in the dark, and they 
can look on the Jungfrau as coolly as if it was a cab- 
bage garden ! What a hard task such people have 
accomplished — much harder than mine. Don’t yo¥ 
tliink they would enjoy themselves much more if the} 
were not weighed down by this vulgar fashion, if the} 
had not weakened their power to admire by repressing 
the expression of it ? ’ 

‘ I think they could, and I think I have decided to 
learn the art of being in good humor and good spirits ; 
but, Mr. Brandon, I foresee a difficulty which you have 
not provided against.’ 

‘ What is that ? ’ 

‘ Whatever else my temper would stand I am sure it 
would give way if I heard it said, as I often should do, 
— “ O, there is no merit in her good temper, it is natural 
to her, it comes from a phlegmatic constitution.” ’ 

‘You think you could not stand that?’ 

‘ I am sure I could not. And there is another thing 
that would be like a dagger to my heart. Suppose I 
learned to take a cheerful view of things, and even 
when there were many things to worry and vex me, 
suppose I generally seemed to be whole-hearted and in 
good spirits — I mean years hence, when, no doubt, I 
should have troubles and some misfortunes to endure.’ 

‘Yes, I understand, and suppose it.’ 

‘ And if, when I had learned to bear up well, to be 
sometimes glad and merry, generally cheerful, I heard 
people say, “ Ah, that shows how little feeling she has — 
we do not all feel equally — it is a proof of a cold heart 
to be so gay, I consider it a sign of a frivolous disposi- 
tion ” — and that sort of thing.’ 

‘Well, Miss Graham, finish your sentence.’ 

In my earnestness I had stopped to look at him, and 
seeing that his eyes were brim full of laughter I paused 
discomfited. 

‘ It will be very mean of them to treat you so,’ he 
exclaimed. ‘I am very angry with them beforehand, 
very angry.’ 

Thereupon he indulged in a succession of laughter, 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


211 


Sombthing seemed to delight him exceedingly, and it 
was so evident that the laugh was against me, that if 
we had not just then been talking of temper, it is possi- 
ble that I might have shown him mine. As it was, I 
only enquired why he laughed. 

‘ Because you talked so seriously,’ he answered ; ‘ as 
if you meant forthwith to give your mind to this ai*t as 
you have called it.’ 

‘ That is just what 1 do mean. I want to learn some- 
thing new and difficult ; besides, if it can be learnt it 
ought to be learnt.’ 

He became serious on hearing this, and while I went 
on with my work he got up and began to pace the cabin 
floor. Presently he came back to his seat and said, in 
a regretful way, — 

‘ I wish I had not talked such nonsense. I beg your 
pardon. To laugh at a good resolution is the last thing 
1 should have thought myself capable of.’ 


212 


OFF THE SKELLIOti. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

‘ And ’tis sentiment kills me, says I.’ 

^SOUTHAMPTON. My first view of it showed a 
gloomy background of cloud with lines of angry 
red running between its thunderous folds, and a 
dark foreground of old wall — Roman wall, I was in- 
formed. It looked as old as the hills, and almost as 
substantial. A very shallow reach of water that hardly 
covered the green weed lay between us and the pier, 
and derived an unquiet beauty from the broken refiec- 
tions of a long row of lamps just being lighted on shore. 

Tom and Mr. Brandon were about to push off when 
I came on deck. They were going to London that 
night, partly about passports, partly, I felt sure, that 
Mr. Brandon might have a surgical opinion about his 
arm, and partly to call on an aunt of the children’s, an 
English lady, who lived in town, and might wish to 
see them before they were taken to their grandmother. 

The dear little creatures had travelled a good deal 
considering their tender age. They had been born in 
England, their father being a poor clergyman in the 
north of Yorkshire. Not quite a year before their re- 
turn orphans, he had accepted a chaplaincy in the West 
Indies, but his health failing, after a very few months, 
he had gone up to Charleston with his family to stay 
with a French lady, a relation of his wife’s, and there 
had died. 

Mr. Brandon knew nothing about the circumstances 
of their family ; he was not even sure how their name 
was spelt, but he had an address in London, and had 
accepted the charge of them from their mother. 

It was Saturday night. Uncle RoHin and I spent a 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


213 


very quiet Sunday, going on shore to church, and after- 
wards walking beside the grand old wall. 

On Monday I did a vast amount of shopping, bought 
a quantity of material for work at sea when the chil- 
dren should be gone, and spent a great deal of time, 
with Mrs. Brand’s help, in choosing things for my own 
wear, for I perceived that it was supposed to be my 
first duty to be always neatly and gracefully dressed, 
I tried to be as economical as I could, as my allowance 
was not large ; but the very next day after these pur- 
chases were made, my uncle, taking a walk with me, 
stopped before one of the principal mercer’s shops, and 
after looking into the window attentively, beckoned 
out a young man, and pointing at various things with 
his finger, said, — 

‘You’ll be so good as to put up that for me, and that^ 
and that — ^ 

‘Won’t you come inside, sir?’ said the young man, 
who was evidently surprised at his style of shopping. 

‘N'o,’ he answered, retreating a step or two. ‘I 
don’t think I will, thank you.’ 

I gave Mrs. Brand, who was behind us with her hus- 
band, a significant look, and she stepped forward. 

‘And I’ll have that, too,’ said my uncle, pointing at 
a very broad blue sash-ribbon that dangled in front of 
the other things. 

‘Yes, but you only mean a sash of it, sir, and a dress- 
length of the silk, and of the embroidered muslin, and 
that scarf,’ said Mrs. Brand. 

‘ Of course,’ he answered. 

‘ Uncle, they are too expensive,’ I ventured to say, 

‘And what do you call that?’ he continued to 
the master, who had now come out. 

‘ That’s an opera-cloak, sir ; a very sweet thing.’ 

‘ Well, and I’ll have that, if you please. Good moni- 
ing, sir. This good ft-iend of mine,’ indicating Mrs. 
Brand, ‘ will tell you where to send the things.’ 

He then marched off with me. 

‘ I know I shall repent this,’ he observed in a mo 
inent or two. 


214 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


‘Dear uncle, pray, pray let us go back then, and 
countermand the order.’ 

‘Nonsense, child! I meant that as we’re going to 
France, I might have done better to buy these things 
there.’ 

‘ I know very well they are for me.’ 

‘ Yes. Why didn’t you say “ Thank you ? ” ’ 

‘ Because I am so afraid if you let me be such an ex- 
pense to you, it will make you dislike me. You must 
have spent twenty pounds.’ 

‘But I only spent what I chose. You should take 
example by me, and never go inside^ and then you can 
get away whenever you like.’ 

Uncle Rollin and I were very happy together till 
three o’clock on Wednesday, when, coming on board, 
we found Tom and Mr. Brandon waiting for us on deck, 
and a lady who was introduced to me as Miss Tott. 

She remarked that she had come to see her nieces. I 
saw two huge boxes with her name upon them, and 
wondered at the amount of luggage she had brought, 
as we were to sail the next day. 

I took her to my cabin, where the children, arrayed 
in their pink frocks, were playing about. 

Miss Tott embraced them both, and wept over them 
copiously. She was a pleasant-looking person, tall, 
very slender, head a little on one side, drooping eyes, a 
long nose that projected rather too far into space, a pen- 
sive, soothing voice, and a fine complexion. 

Little Frances stared at her, and escaped from her 
kisses as quickly as possible ; N annette regarded her with 
curiosity and disfavor. 

‘My precious ones,’ murmured Miss Tott. ‘I trust 
their spirits are not utterly weighed down by these ac- 
cumulated misfortunes. It is indeed sad when the 
heart is wrung in infancy.’ 

‘ What is she crying for ? ’ whispered Frances to me. 

Suddenly she clasped her hands, and looked up ex- 
claiming, — 

‘ They are in colored dresses — ah me ! and what a 
color — pink ! ’ 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


215 


‘Yes, ma’am,’ put in Mrs. Brand, who seemed struok 
with admii’ation of this sensibility ; ‘ we had nothing 
black for them to wear when they came on board; 
their own frocks were torn to shreds, I do assure 
you.’ 

‘ I hope this has not been an additional pang to their 
tender hearts,’ continued Miss Tott. ‘You have ex- 
plained to them, doubtless, that there has been no in- 
tentional disrespect.’ 

She spoke to me, and not without secret wonder, I 
replied, — 

‘ They have not noticed it. They are too young to 
feel deeply ; but I have heard them speak with affec- 
tion of their dear mamma and the baby.’ 

Miss Tott dried her eyes and held out her hand to 
Nannette, who drew back. 

‘This is little Nannette’s aunt,’ I whispered. ‘Go 
to her.’ 

The troublesome little creature instantly said aloud, — 

‘ But hasn’t she brought us something pretty from 
London ? ’ 

That was because Mr. Brandon had promised each of 
them a toy. 

I pushed the chubby little thing nearer, and she 
shook back her shining lengths of straight hair, and 
condescended to take the hand presented to her. 

‘And so my little darling has no dear papa and 
mamma, and no sweet baby sister, now ? ’ 

‘ It isn’t a baby sister,’ lisped the child, softly ; ‘ it’s 
my little baby brother ; he’s got two teeth.’ 

‘ But he is gone now. Nannette has no baby brother 
oow.’ 

‘Yes, I have.’ 

‘ Is it possible that they are in ignorance of these 
things ? ’ cried Miss Tott, ‘ or are they devoid of feel- 
ing?’ 

‘ Neither ; but they do not understand you.’ 

‘He did cry,’ said Nannette, with great simplicity, 
‘ when he was on the raft.’ 

‘ But he is very happy now,’ put in the other child 


216 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


Mr. Brandon says he never cries at all ; God took him 
up to heaven.’ 

‘ He likes to be up there,’ said Nannette, 

Miss Tott looked scandalized at this infantile talk, 
but her boxes now appearing, to my ill-concealed sur- 
prise, she said to me, — 

‘ Mr. Brandon proposed to take my dear little nieces 
to their grandmamma, but I could not bear the thought 
that my little desolate ones should go alone ; so I said 
I hoped it would be no inconvenience to Captain Rollin 
if I accompanied them.’ 

I thought he would very much dislike to have a 
lady passenger, and I said nothing by way of encour- 
agement. 

‘I see abundance of rooni,^’ she presently added, 
looking round. 

‘ But not at my disposal,’ I answered. 

‘ O, do not let that disturb you,’ she said very sweetly, 
and with a soothing tone that I rather resented ; ‘ your 
brother will speak to Captain Rollin when he comes on 
board — no responsibility shall rest on you, the gentle- 
men wilbdo all, and after the captain’s noble hospitality 
I have no anxious feelings about the result; so,’ she 
continued very softly, ‘ would it be too much to ask that 
I might be alone with the dear children for a short 
time ? ’ 

I was rather glad to comply with her request, and 
went away with the admiring Mrs. Brand, shutting 
Miss Tott in with the children. 

In the chief cabin I found Mr. Brandon and Tom, 
the former marching about in a very impatient style ; 
he was evidently vexed and fretted. 

They had been mildly and sweetly obliged by Miss 
Tott to bring her and her luggage on board, and each 
being soothed and assured that he should not have any 
unpleasant responsibility, had beer, told what a relief 
it would be to ‘the captain’ to find that the children’s 
best and nearest protector was ready to go with them. 

‘ And what did my uncle say ? ’ I asked. 

‘ He pulled a long face, but he evidently means to 
eubiiiit.' 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


m 


I said it was a very odd thing. 

‘The whole journey has been odd,’ observed Tom. 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘I saw when we called on 
her that she was full of pensive obstinacy and tender 
humbug.’ 

‘ Why did you bring her with you then ? ’ 

‘ She made us ; she would come. She felt that the 
captain” would expect no less of her, and she could 
not disappoint him.’ 

‘You should have assured her to the contrary.’ 

‘We did, over and over again — no use; she did not 
intend to hear. Graham, I wish we had been lost in 
that fog, and never found her house.’ 

‘ A fog ! we have had none here.’ 

‘ W e had a very thick fog,’ said Tom, ‘ directly after 
the thunder-storm — a soupy fog ; we took a cab and 
set off in it to find the grandfather and this aunt. Drove 
a long way and saw nothing ; at last, after a sharp turn, 
and one or two most preposterous jolts, we heard a loud 
knock and came to a stand. The driver had given 
matters up, and the horse, in despair of finding the 
right turn, had gone up the steps of a house and was 
knocking at the door with his nose.’ 

‘ The footman opened it,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘and ut- 
tered a manly screech. W e asked where we were, and 
found we were in Eaton Square. The horse, all this 
while, foolishly stared in at the hall door. We man- 
aged to get on into Chester Square ; and if Graham 
would only have stood by me, you would have seen a 
different result.’ 

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Tom; ‘you were quite as 
helpless as I was, if not more so. She made us come 
and fetch her too, and her great chests, and what with 
all your tailor’s parcels and mine, and that great Noah’s 
ark nearly as big as a child’s coffin (and some great 
woolly dogs that he bought too, Dorothea, which 
barked in the parcel whenever we moved them), I 
never went through so much with luggage in my life ! ’ 

‘Yes, I have been round the world with less,’ said 
Mr. Brandon 
10 


218 


OFF TEE BKELLIGS. 


‘ So, here she is,’ proceeded Tom ; ‘she wants to per* 
suade the old grandmother that she ought to take the 
entire responsibility of the children. Her father she 
says cannot afford it, now their grandmother, who was 
brought up a French Protestant, has lately become a 
Roman Catholic; and Brandon naturally hoped the 
children would be taken by the father’s family and 
brought up in the religion of their parents. But no, 
they cannot afford it, they say.’ . 

A great deal of crying and scuffling at my cabin- 
door was now^ heard: we looked at one another. 

‘Let them alone,’ said Tom; ‘ she has, no doubt, made 
the children cry by some dismal talk. Now let her 
manage them herself ; she has a right to be alone with 
her own nieces if she likes.’ 

‘You seem to forget, poor thing, that she has only 
heard within the last day or two of the death of her 
sister-in-law; really, I think she may be excused for 
being sorrowful.’ 

‘ She took that matter very composedly,’ said Tom ; 
‘she even informed us that dear Fanchon had been a 
very bad manager, and a very bad match for her 
brother. In fact, we thought she seemed to consider it 
a mark of the favor of Providence towards herself that 
her sister-in-law had been taken.’ 

The remainder of that day was not at all comforta- 
ble. Miss Tott’s tender regrets over the children 
always seemed to imply reproof of somebody else, and 
as they took a great dislike to her I found it difflcult to 
make them behave tolerably. When at last they were 
put to bed, each insisted on taking her woolly dog with 
her, and as long as they could possibly keep awake, 
they made them bark at intervals. They had been well 
taken care of during the voyage, but not kept in order, 
and consequently they were troublesome. Mrs. Brand 
and I had not established much control, and while one 
was being ilressed, she would set off and run round the 
cabin. Then the other would rebel in some infantine 
fashion, poking her lingers into the pomatum, or spill- 
ing my Eau de Cologne. These things it would have 


UJiH Tlii: SKELLIOS. 


219 


been ridiculous to treat as seiious offences, but by dint 
of grave looks, a little scolding, and a little coaxing, we 
got on pretty well, and they would soon have been very 
good children, but they chanced to be particularly full 
of spirits the first morning of their aunt’s presence, and 
when she found that nothing she could say had any 
effect, she sat down in a corner and drooped, leaving 
Mrs. Brand and me to catch and dress the little rebels. 
When these operations were over, I lectured them both 
very gravely, and received kisses in token of penitence, 
but Miss Tott could not recover her spirits, and from 
that hour she never did anything for them, and seemed 
instinctively to shrink from interfering in the least. 

She evidently knew nothing of children excepting 
from books. She expected to find some ready-tamed 
little mortals, calm, and rather depressed, instead of 
tAvo chubby things ; quite wild, unconscious of orphan- 
hood, and mischievous, penitent, naughty and good 
again every hour of the day. 

To me they were the greatest amusement possible, 
and to Mrs. Brand a delight that it did one good to 
see ; but they certainly did not do themselves justico 
that morning. 

Nannette talked at prayers, and had to be carried out 
crying. Frances got away from Mrs. Brand while we 
were at breakfast, and ran triumphantly into the chief 
cabin, where her rash act was rewarded by Uncle Rol- 
lin, who gave her sausage and toast, and afterwards 
carried her on deck, to the great scandal of her aunt. 

I had bought some black alpaca at Southampton, and 
after breakfast Mrs. Brand and I set to work to cut out 
frocks for the children, that we might take them to 
their grandmother in mourning clothes; and Mrs. 
Brand, cheerful and happy, in the prospect of having 
almost more to do that day than she could possibly ac- 
complish, was such a pleasant companion, that I might 
haA^e stayed below another hour, if Tom had not come 
to remind me that I had left Miss Tott to amuse her- 
self as best she could, which did not seem altogether 
polite. 


220 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


My uncle was in the chief cabin reading the moni- 
ing papers, which had come in just before wo sailed. I 
came on deck with my work, and found Miss Tott with 
Mr. Brandon and Tom sitting on deck-chairs under the 
awning. We were about ten miles south of South- 
ampton ; the sea was blue, the deep sky empty and 
bare, the sun hot, the air delightful.’ 

‘ A shame to shut out such a firmament, is it not ? ’ 
asked Mr. Brandon. 

I replied without considering, ‘ I should think so, if 
it was not absolutely empty and open.’ 

‘ Indeed, and why ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! because there is something so pathetic in those 
awful deeps of empty blue — something to fear in that 
waiting infinitude, with no islands up aloft, nothing that 
belongs to us ; only God’s great desert.’ 

‘You prefer to have some of it shut out; you want 
a tent over your head even when you are out of doors ? ’ 

‘Yes, I like to feel enclosed, and in my home; clouds 
are very sublime no doubt, but not oppressively so.’ 

Miss Tott on hearing this laid her hand on my arm, 
with an air not quite of reproof, but rather of tender 
pity. 

‘And yet,’ she said, ‘we ought not to shrink from 
Nature in her deeper sublimities; Nature in the dark 
midnight sky, and the green, surging billows — noth- 
ing else can so well soothe the wracked and burdened 
mind, and still the turbid passions of the soul.’ 

I had often heard people say this kind of thing, and 
read it in books, but my narrow experience had not yet 
brought it before me, and Miss Tott uttered her speech 
in a way that I rebelled against a little. She seemed 
so much to feel the sweetness and wisdom of her own 
words, and to fancy that she was tenderly instilling so 
much truth into a hardened nature, that instead of mak- 
ing any reply I felt an unworthy wish to shake off her 
hand ; however, I resisted this, and there it still lay, as 
if to appeal to my better self ; my ordinary self being 
covered with blushes, because Tom and Mr. Brandon 
were looking at me. At last, I said, — 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


221 


‘No doubt the beauty and grandeur of the world is 
very invigorating, very elevating.’ 

‘You speak as of some abstract truth that you have 
nothing to do with.’ 

‘Miss Graham speaks of what will not always 
bear discussion,’ said Mr. -Brandon, coming to the 
rescue; ‘her first words showed rather an over-sensi- 
tiveness to the influence of the sublime than the 
absence of it.’ 

Miss Tott took no notice of him, but continued to 
gaze at me, and keeping her hand on my arm oppressed 
me further by saying with pensive compassion, — 

‘ But is there no solace for the heart in communing 
with Nature in her wilder moods, and coming to b© 
healed by lier when your spirit is crushed ? ’ 

The tender, old words, ‘ Is there no balm in Gilead,’ 
flashed across my mind, and a thought of ‘ the physician 
there ; ’ but I was much too shy to put my thought into 
words, and answered instead, — 

‘ I don’t exactly know ; I never am crushed.’ 

‘ Ah ! ’ she replied, withdrawing her hand, ‘ you will 
be, some day.’ 

‘ Don’t, Miss Graham,’ exclaimed Mr. Brandon. ‘ I 
wouldn’t, if I were you ! ’ 

I looked up; he and Tom sat opposite, enjoying the 
dialogue, but neither moved a muscle of his face ; and, 
to my discomfiture. Miss Tott took up her crochet, and 
murmured some low sentence in which we distinguished 
the word ‘ profane ; ’ but she seemed to be more in sor- 
row than in anger, and as she worked she handled the 
very needle with a tenderness that might have shown 
■as the depth of her compassion for us. 

Tom and Mr. Brandon glanced at one another wilh 
eyes that seemed to say, ‘We have got into a scrape,’ 
and presently, to my surprise, Tom said in a tone of 
apparent feeling, — 

‘ There is a sort of yearning after the infinite, a kind 
of a brooding over the irrevocable past, looking as it 
were over ‘:he vessel’s side, to see the waves of existence 
pass slowly by, which 


222 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


‘ Ah ! exclaimed Miss Tott, interrupting him. * I 
thought those speaking features could not have deceived 
me. I thought there must be a heart with such a voice 
as that.’ 

I knew, of course, that he was amusing himself at her 
expense, but I am not sure whether Mr. Brandon did. 

‘ I say, old fellow,’ he exclaimed ; ‘ that sort of fhing 
seems more like a dismal aggravation of the crushing 
process than a remed5^’ 

*• It’s one that I always use,’ persisted Tom. 

‘ Ah ! ’ said Miss Tott again. 

‘ Unless I’m crushed quite jiat^ continued Tom ; ‘ and 
then I find that nothing does me so much good as a 
bottle of soda-water — with — with a little brandy in 
it ! What do you take, Brandon ? ’ 

‘ I am sick of the very word,’ said Mr. Brandon, with 
a short laugh. ‘ I shall answer witli your sister that I 
never am crushed, I would rather be excused.’ 

‘ Oh ! but it’s nonsense to struggle,’ said Tom, appeal- 
ing to Miss Tott with his eyes. ‘ You may kick and 
struggle as much as you like, but you must submit.’ 

‘ I won’t,’ he repeated, coolly. ‘ At least, not if I can 
possibly help it, and not for long together ; as long as I 
can speak a word or wag a finger I won’t admit that 
I’m crushed. It was never intended that I should be. 
I hate the word. I hate the feeling it describes. 
Trouble does not come by chance — it is sent to make 
us rise, not to make us sink.’ 

‘All right,’ said Tom ; ‘ but we were not talking of any 
trouble worth mentioning ! I like to hear him fire up,' 
he continued, audaciously looking at us. 

Miss Tott opened wide her dark eyes. 

‘What is that?’ she exclaimed, very tartly. 

‘We were not talking of the troubles of widows and 
orphans, you know, of pinching poverty and remorse 
for crime, or the agonies of broken bones and carking 
care,’ said Tom, addressing her with suave gravity. 
‘ We were talking of poetical yearnings, and general 
dissatisfaction, of dyspeptic nervousness, and the dis- 
comfort of having nothing to do. I am sure I ought to 


OFF TEE SKELLI08, 


223 


*peak feelingly of these ills. No one is a greater mar 
tyr to them than I am.’ 

‘ It is very evident,’ said Miss Tott, with exceeding 
sharpness, ‘ that none of you have ever known any 
trouble worth the name.’ 

‘Even if we have,’ I ventured to say, ‘surely the 
good has outweighed the evil.’ 

‘ What, in this world of sorrow ? ’ she answered 
* You do not know what you are talking of.’ 

‘ I beg your pardon. I did not mean to vex you.’ 

‘I am not vexed; but your remark is contrary to 
reason, religion, and experience.’ 

‘ To experience, perhaps ; but is it contrary to 
religion ? ’ 

‘ Of course it is. Did not our Saviour say, “ In this 
world ye shall have tribulation ? ” ’ 

‘Yes; but, perhaps he may have meant that His 
religion would never exempt them from ordinary ills, 
nor from that envy of the wicked which makes them 
sometimes persecute the good.’ 

‘ I think He meant that they should be afflicted.’ 

‘But they knew that before,’ said Mr. Brandon 
‘ They knew that earth was not paradise.’ 

‘ Then you wish to prove that our Saviour’s words 
meant nothing.’ 

‘ On the contrary ; they were meant (among other 
things) to inform the first disciples that in their day 
would come the worst trouble that the world had ever 
known. And now it is over — now the Christian 
nations are richer, wiser, healthier, and stronger than 
other people.’ 

‘ What do you mean by other people ? ’ 

‘ All but professed Christians.’ 

Miss Tott was silent for a while, till seeming to re- 
member a point that would yield her some triumph, she 
turned to Mr. Brandon and exclaimed, — 

‘Pray, did you feel ir dined during the shipwreck to 
think lightly of trouble, and to be as philosophical as 
you are to-day?’ 

‘ I have often been in danger before,’ he answered, 
hastily ; ‘ so has Graham.’ 


224 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


‘But what did you think?’ 

This was rather an unkind cut, and I thought, 
sidering the circumstances, a little ungrateful. He was 
not willing to discuss the matter, so be tried to put her 
off by saying, — 

‘ I thought what a number of bones there were in the 
human frame.’ 

‘ That was an odd reflection, surely.’ 

‘ Not at all, if most of them are bruised, and you have 
nothing to lie on but planks and spars.’ 

‘ And after that ? ’ she said, still questioning him as 
if for bis good and to elicit some better feeling. 

‘ Too much to be repeated easily. My Yankee friend 
and I had a great deal to do ; but I l^lieve we both 
felt very strongly the sweetness of life.’ 

‘ And what next ? ’ she continued, whereupon he gave 
way to the pressure and replied, — 

‘ I felt the baser part of my nature rising up within 
me; thoughts so distinct, that they seemed to come 
from without, buzzed in my ears like wasps. They 
represented it as hard that the presence of worn-out 
women and helpless children should make my chance 
of life so much fainter ; hunger, wet, fatigue and pain, 
things that had stood aloof from me before drew 
near, and made me feel their weight and power. They 
gnawed at my heart and chilled iny blood.’ 

‘ But I suppose you did not feel crushed ? ’ said Miss 
Tott, in the clearest tones of her high-pitched voice. 

He seemed to dislike this questioning exceedingly, 
und yet to be determined to answer. 

‘No.’ 

‘ What did you feel ? ’ she asked, mildly. 

‘ I felt that this world was utterly gone by, but that 
the other world was not so near as it had often been in 
times of no danger at all. It was not within our grasp ; 
there was something first to be felt and to be seen — ■ 
but though all was lost and as yet nothing gained I be- 
lieved it would be gained. After that there came a 
time of forgetfulness — I did not hear, or feel, or see 
anything.’ 


OFF THE SKELLTG8. 


225 


‘ And all this while you were not overwhelmed ? * 

‘ I did not expect to live after the first twenty-four 
hours, because the pitching of the raft put us in such 
imminent danger, but I did not despair.’ 

‘ Ah ! well, we need not argue about the meaning of 
words ; some of us are better able to bear distress than 
others ; indeed, some of us feel it far less.’ 

This was the very thing that I had anticipated when 
talking with him some days before, but he did not seem 
to remember it. 

‘ Then the worst thing you felt when you became ex- 
hausted,’ she said, ‘ was a kind of forgetfulness.’ 

‘ Oh no, it was not ! ’ he exclaimed ; and such a look 
of horror leapt out of his eyes as for the moment quite 
astonished us. 

He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. 

‘We had been lashed together,’ he said, ‘and I have 
some sort of recollection of going down and down an 
almost endless flight of steps, and thinking that I must 
and would get to the bottom before I died. After that 
came a terrible time, when I seemed to be hemmed in 
by something intensely black, and an awful thought 
pressed me down, that I was dead, — and it was not 
what I had expected 1 I felt sure I was dead, and I 
appeared to go spinning on with that thought for 
years.’ 

Curiosity got the better of Miss Tott here. She 
quite forgot to point the obvious moral. 

‘ Was that in the yacht?’ she said. 

‘I think it must have been, because of the steps; 
besides what enabled me at last to straggle out of that 
blackness and horror was the touch of something soft 
on my forehead. I gathered sense by it to perceive 
that I was still in the body, and I opened my eyes. 

He paused, and a smile came over his face. 

‘ I saw a vision,’ he said ; ‘ I knew not what else it 
could be, and I saw light.’ 

‘ Indeed I ’ exclaimed Miss Tott. Here was an 
experience that just suited her. *What was the 
vision ? ’ 

JQ* 


o 


OFF TUB SKELLIOS. 


226 

‘ I saw a small hand — a child’s hand 1 thought it was 
at first, and appeared to hover before my face. 
There was someihing bright in it, through which the 
light was shining. The child — the angel — whatever 
it might be — was leaning over me, but I only saw the 
hand. It offered me bread, too ; but my senses were 
so dim that I connected something sacramental with 
this bread and wine, and would not touch it because 
my hands and my lips were so begrimed. Then I went 
back into the blackness again and the hand floated 
away; but a voice inexpressibly sweet and pathetic 
appeared to be reasoning with me. I heard the sound, 
but I could not understand the words ; and, after what 
seemed to be a mighty struggle, I got my eyes open, 
and there was the hand again, and the long folds of a 
gown floated down at my side.’ 

‘ Was it very beautiful ? ’ said Miss Tott, in a tone of 
pleasure and awe ; ‘ was it in white ? ’ 

‘It was my sister, of course,’ exclaimed Tom ; for 
he saw that she was completely mystified. ‘It was 
Dorothea ! ’ 

Never shall I forget the look of astonishment and 
contempt she darted at me when she heard this ; she 
drew up her head and set her lips as if she scorned me, 
and would not on any account have betrayed such in- 
terest if she could only have known what this really 
meant. 

He certain’y had not intended to mislead, and an- 
swered her last question without looking at her. 

‘Yes, in white, I think, I did not see the face, and 
the hand appeared to hover before me till I came more 
to myself. Then I drank the wine and ate somethings 
and was in this world again.’ 

Miss Tott attracted my attention the more strongly 
because she was the first person I had met with who, ad- 
miring misery, was very anxious to be thought a sufferer. 
She liked to talk about being stricken, and also when 
she and I were alone of the great expense it would be 
to her to go into deep mourning again. 

No doubt if it is a very fine and interesting thing to 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


227 


be* stricken, many more people will be stricken than 
would be the case in the days when people believed that 
great afflictions were punishments for heinous sins, and 
‘ those eighteen ’ were thought by their neighbors much 
ioick( der folks than themselves. 

Miss Tott did not care to pursue the subject of the 
visionary hand. She returned to her foi*mer thought., 
and said with a sigh, — 

‘ Some people feel things less keenly than others.’ 

‘No doubt,’ he answered; ‘and some of us think i\ 
mean and cowardly to be always looking at the dark 
side ; if we refuse to look at it, therefore, no wonder 
we cannot see it.’ 

‘ On the contrary, others feel that yearning for sym- 
pathy which makes it sweet to commune with some 
friendly and feeling heart,’ said Miss Tott, sharply. 

‘ Sympathy is a skittish and perverse nymph ; de- 
mand too much and she gives nothing. When a soldier 
has lost his arm, if he were to go whining about the 
world lamenting over it everybody would despise him ; 
but if he holds his tongue, and carries his empty sleeve 
carelessly, all the girls are in love with him.’ 

‘ W e expect a soldier to be brave.’ 

‘ Certainly, and thus we help to make him so.’ 

‘ There many things which are far more hard to 
bear than loss oi ilinbs:’ said Miss Tott, severely, and 
as if she claimed for herseii a large share of them. 

‘We talk without book, having no experience in loss 
of limbs, — I suppose disgrace may be worse — and 
remorse.’ I am bound to say that he spoke with a 
certain hesitation, and added, ‘I think it only honest 
to confess that I never had anything to bear that I 
consider at all comparable to the misery of carrying 
timber about with me in the shape of a leg or ai‘m. 
However handsomely it might be made I’m sure the 
joints would creak,’ he added, thoughtfully. 

‘ 1 was not speaking of remorse,’ said Miss Tott ; ‘ 1 
meant such things as loss of friends, disappointment of 
one's fondest wishes, a hopeless attachment, the death 
of xt8 object — inconstancy. 


228 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8. 


0 

Mr. Brandon was silent. 

‘ I consider constancy all stuff,’ said Tom, ‘ unless it 
exists on both sides.’ 

‘ Good heavens,’ murmured Miss Tott. 

‘For,’ proceeded this hardened young man, ‘legs and 
arms won’t grow again ; but a jilted man has “ all the 
world before him where to choose.” ’ 

Mr. Brandon laughed, but he looked uneasy, and the 
subject seemed to please Miss Tott, who said to Tom 
with drooping eyelids and pensive sweetness of ex- 
pression, ‘We should hardly speak of this, should we, 
Mr. Graham, before we know anything about it ? ’ 

‘Meaning,’ said Tom, ‘that I know nothing about 
it?’ 

‘ You are young,’ she replied, with a sort of tender, 
regretful look at him. 

‘ But not without experience ; I have been in love 
times out of number. I don’t mean to say that I have 
been refused at present ; that may be because I have 
not yet gone the length of making an offer.’ 

‘ When you do may you escape that sorrow,’ she an- 
swered, in a tone that was a strange contrast to his 
banter. 

Mr. Brandon evidently winced under this talk : such 
an unmistakable twinge of dislike passed over his face 
that I ventured to change the subject by asking some 
question relative to our rate of sailing. 

He looked up to answer with the air of a man who 
feels himself* to be found out, but he took instant ad- 
vantage of the opportunity to get away, rising and say- 
ing that he would go and make some inquires. 

His departure broke up the conference. Miss Tott 
said she should like to walk about. Tom offered his 
arm, and I ran below to my cabin to take my finished 
work down and bring up the children. They were 
just awake after their morning sleep ; but before we 
had done dressing them to come on deck, Tom knocked 
loudly at the door, exclaiming, ‘ Here’s a pretty state 
of things, the sea is rising a little, and Miss Tott begins 
to look very pale, you had better come to her’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


229 


I tn<3t her eoming down. ‘O let me lie down,’ she 
murmured, ‘ O, this terrible giddiness ! ’ 

I gave her to Mrs. Brand, — the usual thing followed ; 
bjiit I observed that she bore it quite as well as other 
people. 


280 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

‘To his own master he standeth or falleth.* 

H OW much people talk about their first impressioni 
of a foreign country ! It was about six o’clock, 
and dark with thunder-clouds, and pouring with 
rain, when I was told we had entered the French har- 
bor, and were lying opposite to the Douane. My lug- 
gage, consisting of one little box, was landed, so was 
Miss Tott’s ; and we waited on board till it had passed, 
sitting under umbrellas. Poor Miss Tott was fainting 
for air and longing to get away from the scene of her 
misery. Uncle Rollin, at the last moment, took alarm 
and declined to land, but said he would wait at Havre 
till we returned from Chartres. It was, therefore, a 
point of honor to be as quick as we could, and I found 
that Mr. Brandon and Tom had decided on our going 
on to Chartres that same evening ; a cab was waiting 
to convey us on to the railway station. W e had dined ; 
but poor Miss Tott had eaten nothing since breakfast, 
so I made Brand give us a goodly basket of provisions 
to carry with us. 

We were a party of six including the children. Miss 
Tott and I were surprised to find ourselves in a decided 
mist. We had hardly expected mist out of England, 
The rain was uncommonly like English rain. The rail- 
way carriage had the same defect. This was disap- 
pointing ; but we had the satisfaction of hearing the 
railway officials quarrelling in real French. Nothing to 
be seen : rain, mist, thunder-clouds. We soon unpacked 
our gieat basket of provisions. Miss Tott was ter- 
ribly vexed at having to eat an English pigem-pie and 


OFF THE SKELLIQS. 


231 


gal ad on French soil, and after that slices of cake, also 
such a thoroughly English dish ! and then Stilton 
cheese, and lastly, strawberries ; but by ten o’clock we 
had done all this with appetite, and then taken off the 
children’s hats and laid them on the seat to go to 
sleep. 

As the dusk came on the rain ceased, and Miss Tott 
and I gazed diligently out of the windows ; but dark- 
ness, we were obliged to own, looked much the same 
everywhere. 

We saw hardly anything, even when we reached Paris ; 
for the children woke up and cried most piteously. We 
were soon shut up in a room with numbers of people, 
half of whom spoke as good English as ourselves ; and 
then the officials storming at Mr. Brandon and the par- 
cels we wanted to have with us, hustled us into a car- 
riage, where, to our disgust, we had to sit for at least 
ten minutes before the train started. 

We slumbered while it was dark, and day had just 
dawned on a perfectly flat country, when we first saw 
the graceful spires of Chartres Cathedral. 

All very tired, some very cross, we drove to an hoteV 
and straightway went to bed until nine o’clock, when I 
woke and peeped out. 

Ah! yes, this was foreign indeed. A fine broad 
place, house with two or three tiers of windows in the 
roof, women without bonnets, the clatter of wooden 
shoes, and a vast amount of joyous jabbering. A big 
diligence at the door, with three white cart-horses har- 
nessed abreast thereto. (It looked like a hay-stack on 
wheels, and was covered with a tarpauling.) A mar- 
ket and a fair going on, tables with smoking-hot 
coffee, and round loaves in the shape of a ring upon 
them ; bakers’ boys bringing these round their arms, and 
around their necks; great heaps of apples, pears, late 
cherries, stacks of plums, stains of fruit all over the 
stones, great rugged melons that did not seem half-ripe, 
tiny French men and French women sitting on them 
in their little blue pinafores and wooden shoes, and the 
»un pouring down over all as it never can in England 


232 


OFF TEE SKELL1G8 


BO early in the morning. Inside, the windows swarmed 
with flies, and the floor was tiled. Cheering sights, so 
foreign ! 

Miss Tott and I dressed the children in their new 
clothes, then we rang, were conducted to a scdon^ 
where we found Tom and Mr. Brandon, and where wo 
ate a remarkable breakfast, consisting of fried potatoes, 
rice-pudding, eggs, rolls as long as our arms, boiled 
pigeons, and wine. 

Tom and I were very anxious to get to the cathedral ; 
so, as soon as we had breakfasted, we left Miss Tott 
and Mr. Brandon to take the children to their grand- 
mother, and set forth, intending to find our way and 
not to ask it, for it was rather a shock to us to discover 
that the French spoken ^by the natives was not quite 
so intelligible to us as we had confidently expected to 
find it. 

It would not have been easy, however, to lose our 
way, foreign though we now felt the place to be ; the 
sun on our backs was especially foreign, so was the 
shop we entered. It was full of the strangest little 
images, and most of them were black. 

We bought the Abb4 Bulteau’s description of the 
cathedral, a good-sized book, and learned that the ugly 
little black dolls represented the celebrated black Vir- 
gin. I bought also a Roman Catholic service-book ; 
and we went on a little further, until bn a sudden turn 
the two grand spires stood before us, and the wonder- 
ful doors, deep and solemn in the shade, and strangely 
crowded and guarded by quaint carvings of bishops, 
saints, apostles, and kings, all bearing that peculiar 
look which distinguishes so much of the sculpture of 
the middle ages. 

Innocence, purity, devotion, and a kind of saintly 
calm were impressed on their impassive faces, and there 
was something majestic in the deeply cut folds of the 
raiment which covered them ; but there was in most of 
them a want of muscle and force and manliness, of 
active thought and towering intellect, which at first, as 
I gazed, disturbed me; but after a long look, I felt that 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


233 


the men who carved them so were right, for if they 
had shown any marks of longing, activity, or com- 
mand, it would have been painful to think of them as 
imprisoned there so long. 

We entered; shall I ever forget the sudden sense of 
coolness and shade after the glare of the world outside ! 
We had stepped into some glorious gloom back into 
time, leaving the noise, and light, and stir of our cen- 
tury behind us ; here was an old-world cavern, a grand 
old roof hung over it, and it was all fluted and flne 
with hundreds of shafts, and letting in a deep and som- 
bre rainbow through every one of its hundred and 
thirty colored windows. 

We both stood amazed: they seemed to be little 
more than semi-translucent. If a peacock’s tail and a 
dove’s neck could suddenly have let the light Alter 
through them, and could have added some deep, delight- 
ful ruby stains to their own blue, and green, and brown, 
and orange glows, they would have been like one of 
the windows, but there were so many, and they were 
all different ! 

Oh ! how beautiful ! how fearful ! how grand ! 

I sat down to take my fill of gazing. I saw in the 
clerestory windows the quaint old giant kings and 
priests and heroes staring down in their jewelled head- 
gear and minever mantles. Then I stole into the aisles, 
and marked the glorious windows presented by the 
trades of the town, their artful glories, all different and 
splendid, and yet the homely, ancient simpleness of 
their detail. 

I understood, then, for the first time, what man can 
do with color, and felt the peculiar sensation which is 
the real root of what attracts and arrests us away from 
home ; that sense of incongruity, that special way of 
putting things together, which foreigners feel to bo 
different from anything they ever do. 

Suddenly it became to my English eyes all out of 
keeping, for near the marvellous old stone screen that 
divides the nave from the choir there was a small, 
gilded nook, and, in a moment, all the splendor of the 


234 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


grandest art appeared to give way to a childish, shabby 
piece of finery, like a show at a fair. 

The Virgin — the hideous black Virgin ! there she 
stood on a projecting bracket ; a vulgar, wooden doll, 
clad in cloth of woven gold, and frightful in her jewels, 
with those staring eyes and shapeless arms. 

About twenty rushlights were burning before her; 
they were stuck on the spikes of a gilt railing which 
kept the faithful from touching her, and they winked 
and guttered down in the daylight, dropping on some 
flowers which grew in pots below. 

I saw four women kneeling and pressing their lips 
against the railing; their faces were full of adoration, 
and their eyes gazed at the image. How often had I 
been told that they did not pray to the image but to 
what it represents ! I had religiously believed this. I 
shall never have that comfort again. 

The women rose, bowed deeply to the image, and 
when they were gone I drew near, and Tom came up 
with the sacristan. 

‘Yes, monsieur was right, he now beheld the cele- 
brated black Virgin, the chief ornament of the cathedral. 
It had been brought down, did monsieur understand, 
by two angels.’ 

‘No; monsieur thought he could not have under- 
stood aright.’ 

‘The angels brought it direct from heaven. The 
two angels made it.’ 

‘ What ! in heaven ? ’ 

‘ Precisely ; thus you see it Is sacred.’ 

Monsieur shook his head, and in bad deliberate 
French observed, looking round him, ‘that the work of 
angels looked very poor beside that of men.’ 

‘But monsieur is an Englishman,’ said the man. 

Monsieur wished to see the bones of St. Piat. 

‘Yes, we should see them when the priest who had 
the key returned. But mademoiselle would not find 
them very interesting, for all but the nose was covered 
with artificial flowers.’ 

This was such a ghastly idea that I declined to see 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


235 


them. Here again was the strange incongruity, and 
the same man who thought the doll so precious did 
not hesitate to spit upon the floor, very near to 
where she stood. 

Then he took us to see several altars, on each of 
which stood ornaments of plaster, like those on wed- 
ding-cakes; and to several niches in which were large 
figures, like those in hair- dressers’ shops — their gowns 
were trimmed with nun’s lace, and their hair had 
flowers in it. 

Mr. Brandon just then came up. He had been look- 
ing for us. 

‘Well, what do you think of it?’ he whispered. 

‘Oh! think! I cannot think there is such solemn, 
awful splendor and such trash and rubbish. Look at 
that lovely roof, and then look at those dirty flowers 
that a kitchen-maid would scorn to wear ; look how 
dirty the floor is.’ 

‘ Ah ! I have seen that sort of thing often. Did you 
see the Virgin over the great door ? ’ 

‘ I only saw two figures,’ 

‘That was our Saviour crowning Mary Queen ol 
Heaven, and declaring her equal with Himself.’ 

The choir gates were then unlocked, and the sacristan 
began to show us the carving. 

‘Monsieur will please to notice,’ he said, still follow- 
ing Tom, ‘ that it is not with us, as in many places, 
less celebrated places, places to which, as one may say, 
the more delicate needs of civilization have not pene- 
trated, and where the priests and choir have to spit on 
the floor.’ 

He pointed to long things like mignonette-boxes 
filled with sawdust. 

‘Voila,’ said he, with no small pride; ‘pour les Pr^ 
tres, et voila pour Monseigneur.’ 

W e peeped into the bishop’s throne, and, true enough, 
there stood a little one ! 

I felt very angry with them. I had expected such 
OTeat reverence and costliness. 1 thought these be* 
longed to the ideal of the religion. 


236 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


‘ They are not dirty because they are Roman Catho- 
lics,’ said Mr. Brandon. ‘Frenchmen can be dirty 
whatever their faith, or want of faith. You know,’ 
he continued, ‘ the Roman Catholic prelates keep up a 
beautiful old custom that ours have relinquished : after 
service, on Sunday, they come out and bless the people. 
Once, when I was at Coutances, the venerable old 
archbishop came out in his golden mitre and all the stiff 
splendor of his robes, and lifted up his hand, holding it 
high over the crowd as he stood on the top of the great 
steps. With the other hand, as I presently observed, 
he was fumbling in his breast, and soon, by slow de- 
grees, I saw him draw out an immense, blue cotton 
handkerchief, which was checked like the dusters that 
house-maids use — he flourished it, blew his nose, and 
then, more people having gathered together, he again 
raised his hand in blessing, and no one saw anything 
strange and sordid in the blue handkerchief but myself.’ 

‘ 1 do not think that would have offended me. The 
handkerchief was his own, the gems and the robes 
perhaps belonged to his office or to the cathedral. 
Still it must have damaged the beauty of the spectacle.’ 

‘Perhaps you are regarding all this as a spectacle 
only.’ 

‘ Perhaps I am. I must say I feel as much repelled 
by the want of cleanliness, for instance, as by the 
crowned Queen of Heaven over the door. And that 
must be wrong.’ 

As we came to the west door and stepped out, he 
said, ‘Yes, and don’t you feel a burning desire to set it 
right for them — taste, and dogma, and all! What 
leisure there must be up in heaven! You see God is 
in no hurry with them. Yet I think He will set tliem 
right at last, and perhaps we shall have to be set rig) it 
too.’ 

‘ But I don’t see how we can be very far wrong,’ was 
my somewhat youthful answer. 

‘Don’t you? No more do I. I don’t see it, and yet 
I suppose it must be so.’ 

‘ Why ? ’ 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


237 


Well,’ he answered, ‘when I see very plainly, as 1 
appear to do to-day, that some other people have made 
mistakes against themselves, and when I feel very 
plainly, as I appear to do to-day, that I have made no 
such mistake, a thought falls down on me like a thun- 
derbolt, that if this were the case, surely something 
more must and would and should come of it.’ 

^ But we all have more light than we use.’ 

* Yes, and that is my answer to myself. And yet, 
strange to say, when we toil to do the right for God, 
and pray to Him for more light, we often get instead 
a sense of His stillness and waiting. Not an atom 
more certainty to go by, but a warmer and wider sense 
of His love, and a greater willingness to let Him do as 
He pleases with this world of His.’ 

He and Tom now agreed to go and look about them 
in the town ; but I felt that I had not seen enough of 
the cathedral, so I asked Tom to come and fetch me in 
an hour ; and went back to engulf myself again in the 
stillness of that colored shade. I had the book of the 
abbe to be my interpreter, and, sitting down, I opened 
it at the dedication, which was startling to one so ig- 
iiorant of all religions but her own. 

‘A MARIE, 

‘ Mfere de Dieu et Dame de Chartres. 

Our fathers have dedicated to you this marvellous basilica as the 
Lady of Chartres and “Tuttle” of their city; suffer, O mighty Queen ! 
that one of your servants may dare to dedicate to you this slight 
description of their immortal work, the magnificent testimony of their 
generous and tender devotion towards you.* 

Guided by this curious book, I went to look at the 
bas-reliefs on choir-screen, and especially at that one 
which records the death of Marie, where, while St. 
Peter sprinkles her with holy-water and St. John tells 
his beads, she presents the famous chemise to her 
young attendant. 

This garment, only second in sacredness to the 
so-called holy coat at Treves, is laid up in the cathe- 
dral in a golden caise, the abb^ informing his read- 
ers that for six centuries it has been the object of the 


238 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


most fervent devotions of the faithful. Then, with inde* 
scribable simplicity, to the last degree curious and attrac- 
tive, he next describes the sculptured scene in which eight 
angels, ‘ almost trembling with respect,’ lift the Virgin’s 
body into the tomb ; but the Old Testament scenes, in 
which monks, bound books, knights in armor, and 
churches appear, are quite as interesting, and he seems, 
if one may trust his style of description, to find nothing 
strange in them. 

I was delighting in the resplendent loveliness and 
purity of light and color that came in through the 
glorious west window, when the sacristan came up to 
me again and remarked that monsieur and mademoiselle 
could not have come on a better day, for there was to 
be High-Mass in the evening ; it would be the grandest 
spectacle of the year, and would close with a proces- 
sion to the crypt. We should then see the caise in 
which the sacred relic was kept; four priests would 
bear it; also we should see the sacred banner of 
Chartres, with the chemise represented on it ; we should 
acknowledge then that nothing could be more magnifi- 
cent. 

I remained in the cathedral until Tom and Mr. Bran- 
don came for me and took me to see the children and 
the sweet, tender old grandmother. She was giving 
them slices of bread and fruit, and they seemed already 
quite at home with her. Though she was the wife of 
an hotel-keeper, her manners were charming, and her 
thanks for the care we had bestowed on her darlings 
were more elegant than anything we could say in re- 
turn. 

We had a curious dinner afterwards, and rose fi-om it 
to go into the fair and see the French soldiers, and the 
grown-up women riding in merry-go-rounds and on 
wooden horses, with all the joyousness of children. 
Then, when it was nearly dark, we turned up the nar- 
row street that led to the cathedral and entered its 
great cavernous doors with the crowd that was pouring 
Into them. 

We were desirous not to show any disrespect and yet 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


239 


not to be among the worshippers, so we sat withdrawn 
behind a pillar, but where we could see perfectly well. 
It was a grand thing to see twilight brooding over the 
crowd below, while lines of sunset yet lingered am jng 
the vaulting of the roof and behind the windows, which, 
growing deeper and dimmer, appeared to recede from 
us to a greater distance, preserving all the time a solemn 
splendor, until they melted into the dusk and weie 
gone. We all had chairs, having given two sous each 
for them, and when two or three lamps were lighted to 
prevent confusion, there was a sudden clatter and flut- 
ter ; all the chairs were being turned, a voice behind us 
caused us also to turn, and some one began to preach. 
‘ Behold ! my brothers,’ he began, ‘ we are now at the 
feet of Mary.’ As he preached, men on ladders lighted 
hundreds of little colored lamps, which were wreathed 
about the pillars and festooned from pier to pier. We 
were seated in the wide, open nave, but the roof was 
so lofty that I thought the crowds of people on their 
chairs and round the bases of the pillars only looked 
like lumps of moss and flowers growing about the roots 
and stems of enormous trees. The high altar rested 
against the great gates that shut in the choir, and, while 
the sermon went on, the functionaries lighted it up. 

Again I felt the contrast between the solemn grand 
old cave and these paltry prettinesses. 

‘What does this remind you of?’ whispered Tom, 
leaning before me to speak to Mr. Brandon. 

‘ V'. R., V. R., V. R., glittering everywhere. Isn’t it 
just like Regent Street on the Queen’s birthday ? ’ 

Miss Tott groaned when he said this. ‘ Look at that 
long procession of splendor,’ she said, ‘ here come the 
piiests.’ 

What a strange sight when one sees it for the first 
time, and what a strange sound was the quavering, 
weak chant, and the slight clatter of the censers as they 
were swung up smoking among the growing flowers i 
There was the old archftshop in his golden mitre, and 
womanly gear reaching down to his shoes, and all stiff 
with gems and or/evrerie and lace; then followed 


240 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


troops of ecclesiastics in scarlet and gold, and pnrj^>l0 
and green; and then the priests in white; anl then 
numbers of little boys in scarlet clothes and white 
tunics ; while all the time the quavering chant went on, 
and the restless crowd swayed about, and long lines of 
delicate smoke followed the boys as they ran in and 
out, and men went on lighting the lamps, which were 
now nearly ready. 

‘ Thrift, thrift, Horatio,’ Tvhispered Tom ; ‘ there ia 
very little oil in those lamps : they do well to light them 
late.’ 

Do let me wonder at it all in peace, was my thought ; 
but now the organ began to play — the grand old organ 
in the roof that we could not see. First it sent out a 
few trembli})g, tender notes, that wandered away along 
the upper vaults, or dropped down upon us softly like 
sighs of angels, then suddenly they were all about us 
and among us, and we rose as if to get nearer to the 
music, which was pealing out the triumphal beginning 
of a glorious hymn. 

It seemed as if some instinct had drawn us up from 
our seats ; but we had hardly obeyed it when the organ 
wandered away in unexpected fashion, and we appeared 
to be floating among strange worlds, and to be taken 
out among the stars ; then in a moment it flew back to 
its first theme, and burst upon us like musical thunder, 
‘ God save the Queen.’ 

It was the Queen of Heaven, who is emphatically 
queen at Chartres. 

^ Do you see the cross ? ’ whispered Mr. Brandon. 

I looked and saw over the high altar a great cross 
formed of colored lamps, and surmounted by a very 
large letter M, also of lamps. The letter M was re- 
splendent and glorious, so that it appeared to hang 
suspended in the dark, so dim was the cross beneath it. 
The lamps had been duly lighted, but they flickered, 
paled, and some went out, spoiling the symmetry of the 
device. 

‘ Curious accident,’ said Mr. Brandon ; ‘ it makes me 
feel quite superstitious. Strange they will not light. 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8, 241 

Tne cross is utterly dimmed here by the glories of 
Mary.’ 

The sight of that blazing M and dying, fading cross 
gave me just the feeling he confessed to. 

‘If I had read such a thing in a book,’ he went 
on, ‘I should have said it was invented for effect; 
but, look, there it comes; this is what we are here 
to see.’ 

So we turned, and in the distant gloom we saw that 
the vast old west doors were slowly swinging open, and 
I heard, somewhere in the gulf of darkness without, a 
trembling chant, while all the gorgeously-dressed pro- 
cession went slowly down toward these doors, and the 
great congregation swaying backward and forward 
opened for them, leaving a wide aisle; and then was 
such a bustle, such a moving of chairs, and such a set- 
ting of children upon them, that for a few minutes I 
lost sight of the priests altogether, but by the sound of 
their voices I perceived that they had gone outside the 
building. 

‘They are gone to meet the banner and the relic,’ 
said Mr. Brandon ; here it comes.’ 

An endless procession of young girls, and each one 
with a white muslin veil over her head, and a great 
candle, thicker than her arm and towering far above her 
head. About a hundred girls passed, then came four 
priests, bearing on poles the golden shrine of the ^elic, 
and close behind it came the banner. 

I saw a small flag of rich white silk, and on it %n 
ordinary woman’s chemise embroidered in red, the efiigy 
of a common garment of a usual pattern, not, I think, 
like anything worn of old in the East. 

Hundreds more girls followed. They were all gazing 
at the banner with an expression of love and reverence 
indescribable, and softly singing one of the litanies of 
the Virgin. 

It was such a strange and pathetic sight that Miss 
Tott and I both wept. She because its tender beauty 
touched her, I because I could not bear to think of their 
wasted love. And all the time the cross flickered and 

11 p 


242 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


went out, and I caught a petition here and there of 
their litany to Marie. 

‘ Sainte M^re de Dieu, 

Rose Mysterieiise — priez pour nous. 

Etoile du matin. 

Refuge des p^cheurs, 

Reine des Apotres — priez pour nous. 

Reine des Anges, Sainte M^re de Dieu, 

Reine con^ue sans pech4 — priez pour nous.’ 

1 had heard before careless prayers, formal prayers, 
and even the profane prayer of the swearer, but I had 
never heard anything so pathetic as this prayer, under 
the waning, flickering cross, of a devout multitude who 
did not notice it, and all whose eyes were for the effigy 
on the banner. 

‘ Did you ever see such a sight as that before ? ’ said 
Tom, pointing it out to Mr. Brandon. 

‘No,’ he answered; ‘such sights only appear to new- 
comers.’ 

The banner was hoisted up, and the procession 
halted ; but in a few minutes I observed in the gloom, 
which these blinking candles could not dispel, that the 
crowd, though no doors were open, was rapidly melt- 
ing away, moving on towards a dim corner, and passing 
out of sight. 

Tom thought they must be going down to the crypt ; 
and we, too, when the procession had formed again, fol- 
lowed it on, but a good way off*. 

We were left nearly alone, most of the lamps were 
already out, and we groped our way to that corner 
where was a little door, through which we looked down 
a long flight of steps to a passage below. The steps 
were so worn away that we did not descend without 
difficulty, but once down we got into a lighted aisle. 
We were underneath the nave, and far beyond we heard 
the pathetic, unsatisfied chant of the monotonous litany. 
These vast old vaults were but dimly lighted, and we 
seemed to thread interminable lengths of them, running 
against the tombs of abbots, and treading in the dust 
of kings — no, not their dust, only the dust of their old 
monuments ; for the Virgin is supposed to have an ob- 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


243 


jection to the presence of dead bodies, therefore none 
are buried here. At length, upon a sudden turn, we 
came upon a great outburst of light, the procession, and 
all the kneeling crowd. They were at the feet of a 
coarse wooden image, evidently very old, a frightfully 
barbarous Mother and a still more rudely fashioned 
Child. We stood a good deal withdrawn that we 
might not be seen. ‘ How bad the air must be down 
here ! ’ I said to Mr. Brandon. ‘ Some of these great 
candles arc actually going out.’ 

‘ Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘ you don’t surely suppose they 
are real? You do not take them for wax?’ 

‘ They are wax, indeed. I can see it — by their hue ; 
besides, what else can they be ? ’ 

‘ Excuse me, I have seen thousands of them in differ- 
ent parts of the world. They are tin cases, painted to 
imitate wax, and having a hole at the top to admit two 
or three inches of rushlight, which is pressed up by a 
spring. These stingy folks have put in such short bits 
that they Will not last out the ceremony; that is the 
reason then is such a vile smell of candle-snuff.’ 

What an extraordinary thing this seemed to do, be- 
cause, as gii ing candles is a religious act, what was the 
good of making any better of them in the eyes of 
mortals, when to the saint it was surely supposed to be 
evident that they were ‘ dips ’ ? 

The kneeling crowd began to shift, then to rise and 
move, and we were pressed upward with it, and, at last, 
reached the great, dark nave, through which wander- 
ing wafts of damp night-air were sighing. And so we 
were borne along to the wide west-door, but we failed 
to find Tom and Miss Tott in the crowd, and we 
walked towards our hotel without them. 

‘What do you think of it?’ asked Mr. Brandon 
again. 

‘ Oh ! it is very surprising ; so different from what I 
expected ; so wonderfully grand and barbarously splen- 
did ; so simply and heartily idolatrous ! As a show it 
was lovely and pathetic ; but it wanted gravity — the 
people chatted softly, and the priests wanted dignity.’ 


244 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘Most things French want that,’ he answered 
‘Those priests never walk well, and the people were 
not awed; they were too much amused to give one 
the idea that they felt they were assisting at a solemn, 
religious service.’ 

‘ It is very odd, that, apart from any religious reason, 
I am deeply disappointed. I' expected to see such 
deep reverence. Do you know I felt afraid to go and 
see it, lest I should be drawn to it too strongly ? ’ 

‘ And now ? ’ 

‘Now I hardly know what to think! Certainly I 
am not attracted. Surely it was theatrical, and to a 
certain extent unreal.’ 

‘ The music was fine,’ he answered. ‘ Not so fine as 
you would have on a high-day at Westminster Abbey, 
or at York, or at Durham (cathedrals that I happen to 
know best) ; but still it was fine. And surely you did 
not expect English solemnity from a French priest, and 
English sobriety from a French crowd?’ 

‘Yes, indeed.’ 

‘I have often seen French women praying before 
some shrine with a most touching expression of rever- 
ence and love; but I have not seen elsewhere that 
hushed and reverent quiet and that tender awe with 
which an English congregation comes up to receive the 
holy communion.’ 

‘ I thought to see that in perfection.’ 

‘ I think you never will, at least I never did. I do 
not know of any solemnity to match the silence in an 
English church followed by the low voice of the clergy- 
man when he partakes himself of the sacred elements, 
before he gives them to the people.’ 

‘But I felt that the show was too cheap. Some 
things meant to be grand were sham.’ 

‘ They are not so rich as we are.’ 

‘No; but with us shabby old pulpit clothes and 
pewter communion plate only mean that the worshippers 
Are poor, or unobservant ; here it means that they are 
andutiful.’ 

‘Many people would have been delighted and as^ 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


245 


tonklied ^ith what we have seen. It was at least 
pathetic, though it seems to me that its chief pathos 
was for us. To me it seemed one of the grandest and 
most sublime sights I ever beheld, for to all that gor- 
geous coloring and barbaric adorning, and those pale 
trailing drifts of incense smoke, through which one saw 
the old men’s and the children’s faces, was added the 
certainty that not a soul among them was conscious of 
the tragical withdrawal into darkness of the sacred 
sign. It was hidden from their eyes.’ 

We turned as he spoke, and looked back at the ex- 
quisite spires, and looked earnestly, for this was to be 
our last view of them. When we reached the hotel 
we found our boxes already brought down into the 
courtyard ; the carriage was waiting which was to take 
us to the railway, for we were to return to Havre that 
very night. Tom and Miss Tott were in it, our bill was 
paid, and we were soon in our places in the railway 
carriage, feeling very tired, but too much excited to 
sleep. 

I was sitting lost in thought, and feeling as if in a 
dream, when we stopped at a station, and Miss Tott, 
sighing, laid her hand on my arm, and said : 

‘You have been gratified, I hope; and you too, Mr, 
Graham.’ 

Tom nodded. 

‘No doubt we have all been interested,’ said Mr. 
Brandon ; ‘ but no two of us have seen the same thing. 
You and I have seen what we looked for — a common 
case; it is often difficult to see anything else. Miss 
Graham has accomplished it, and seen something start* 
ling.’ 

‘ I have seen something superior to anything I could 
have hoped,’ she answered. ‘ Something far finer than 
my fondest dream. I saw kneeling faith and adoring 
love ; and those flowers, how lovely they looked in the 
lamp-light! And you, Mr. Brandon, did you, could 
you see anything different ? ’ 

‘Yes; there is no use in denying it. I saw lamps 
that we hire on illumination nights at sixpence a dozen. 


246 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


1 heard bad chanting, and I smelt bad oil; but yon 
know the town-clerk at Ephesus said of Paul that he 
was not a blasphemer of the goddess.’ 

‘Oh! what can you mean by such an allusion as 
that ? ’ 

‘I’m not sure that I know! It only occurred to me 
that I should like to follow that example.’ 

‘ But I think the town-clerk lied,’ observed Tom. 

‘And I think not. I think that while showing the 
more excellent way he was very careful not to be rude 
or disrespectful. There is all the grace and courtesy 
of the East in that speech at Athens.’ 

‘ And you actually were not impressed ? ’ cried Miss 
Tott. 

‘ No ; but I do not complain. I saw what I looked 
for, and what I went to see.’ 

‘ He paid two sous for his chair,’ said Tom, ‘ and he 
thought that was what the show was worth.’ 

‘But Miss Graham saw something remarkable — 
something unexpected.’ 

Miss Tott, whose hand still lay on my arm, looked 
at me with tender interest, and said with conviction, 
and also as if she would persuade me to acknowledge 
my feelings : 

‘ She was impressed, I am sure. Yes, I saw that she 
was overpowered.’ 

‘I am sorry,’ was my answer; ‘but how could I help 
it ? I expected to see what you described, but I was 
obliged to see something more like what Mr. Brandon 
looked at.’ 

‘You will never buy such a sight for two sous agaiiw 
he replied. 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


247 


CHAPTER XVI. 

‘O Kat«! nice customs curtsey to great kings.’ — Henry the Ftfik. 

W E dozed when we could that night, but were all 
very tired when we reached Havre, My uncle 
had established himself at Wheeler’s Hotel, and 
gave us a grand breakfast there before we went on 
board, which we did about twelve o’clock, all feeling 
weary, especially poor Miss Tott, who went to her berth 
directly and began to be ill before we were out of the 
harbor. It rained hard all the afternoon until dinner- 
time, which was about five o’clock. We, that is, Tom 
and Mr. Brandon and myself, had each taken a book 
and pretended to read, but a gentle snore soon told me 
how Tom was occupied, and Mr. Brandon’s book shortly 
after fell on the floor with a thump that startled him, 
and he picked it up, making a remark on the lurching 
of the vessel, which I roused myself to hear, but pres- 
ently resigned myself to circumstances and slept sweetly 
until Brand came in to make preparations for dinner. 

'rtien we all went to our peculiar dens to dress, and 
my uncle sent me by Mrs. Brand a pretty brooch that 
he had bought for me at Havre — an opal set in gold, 
and surrounded by turquoises. I put on my best dress, 
and otherwise adorned myself so as to do it honor, and 
could not help wishing that I had remembered to biing 
him something from Chartres. I wished it the more, 
when, after dinner, Tom produced some eau de Cologne 
and presented to him, and Mr. Brandon brought out 
the neatest of cigar-cases. Dear old man, he was 
pleased, and, looking with pride at his own choice of 
the brooch, entered into a long discussion with Mr 
Brandon relative to the cost of the said brooch, in 


248 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


which the latter displayed a good deal of knowledge 
as to the ornaments worn by ladies, and the proper 
sums to be given for them. 

He produced two brooches which he had bought for 
his sisters — the only presents he was going to take 
home to his family ; for all his effects had gone down 
in the ship, and they chiefly consisted of natural curi- 
osities. ‘I felt a sudden wish to come home,’ he said, 
‘ but I had spent so much money that I could only re- 
turn in a sailing vessel, unless I would wait until my 
step-father could send out more to me. I did not care 
to do that, so I sailed from Charleston, and you know 
the consequences.’ 

In the evening, when lamps were lighted, and I was 
sitting alone in the chief cabin, writing a letter to my 
sister, he came in and said abruptly, ‘ I am going to- 
morrow, Miss Graham.’ 

He sat down near me. 

‘You know we agreed some time ago that your 
going was to be a loss to me,’ I replied, ‘ though now 
that your arm is so nearly well — ’ 

‘ Exactly so ; but, as I am going, will you accept one 
of these brooches in memory of the raft and every- 
thing else ? ’ 

‘ What ! ’ I exclaimed, ‘ when you expressly told us 
that you bought them for your sisters ? ’ 

We both laughed. ‘ I could give her something else,’ 
he said. ‘ But you cannot write while you are talking. 
I wish, then, you would close your letter-case.’ 

‘ Why ? ’ 

‘ Because I cannot help seeing your opening words 
where I sit — “ My dearest Amy.” ’ 

I closed the case. ‘ And about these trifles,’ he con- 
tinued, ‘I should be so much flattered if you would 
choose one.’ 

He had added a third — it lay beside the brooches 
on the table, a pretty ring, set with pearls. 

‘ This,’ he said, taking it up and laying it on the palm 
of his hand, ‘ has not the disadvantage of having been 
chosen for some other person.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


249 


‘Ah! you chose it for me, that was kind; but is 
it the custom for gentlemen to make presents to 
ladies ? ’ 

lie looked astonished at my question, which made 
me feel that he must think it an odd one; then he 
smiled to himself, and answered, after a pause, that it 
was not the custom, excepting under especial circum«‘ 
stances. 

Observing that he seemed a little out of countenance, 
and knowing how ignorant I was, I actually thought I 
ought to apologize for the implied supposition that he 
had done what was not customary, and I began to say 
something of the sort when he hastily checked me. 

‘You are perfectly right — perfectly. It was only 
the simplicity of your question that took me by sur- 
prise. As a general rule, ladies do not accept presents, 
nor do men presume- to offer them. And yet,’ he said, 
looking at my hand with a sort of regret, ‘ you go wan- 
dering about the world so much, that my good stars 
may never guide me across your wake again ; and I 
thought that perhaps, without presumption, I might 
offer you this tiny thing to remind you of a little epi- 
sode in your life which will bear reflection.’ 

‘ It is for the visionary hand, is it not ? ’ I could not 
help saying, for I had often seen him look at my hands 
with an interest that nothing else in me appeared to 
excite, 

‘Yes,’ he answered. 

‘ Then I will have the ring. Thank you.’ 

He handed it to me gravely, and I put it on my little 
finger, after which we began to talk of Chartres and 
the children and the days we had spent together — 
pleasant talk which lasted till tea came in, and with it 
Uncle Rollin and Tom. 

We were within four or five knots of Southampton 
when I went to sleep that night, and the last thing I 
saw was one of the lights on the Isle of Wight. 

Poor Miss Tott insisted on being on deck all night, 
thinking it was better for her; so I had my cabin 
to myself, and had just finished dressing the next 
11 * 


250 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


morning, when Tom knocked at the door, and I called 
him in. 

He had a fine bunch of fiowers in his hand, and gave 
them to me. 

‘Well, Brandon’s ofi*,’ he said. ‘ I went on shore with 
him, and took leave of him.’ 

‘Mr. Brandon gone?’ I exclaimed. 

‘Yes,’ said Tom, looking a little disconcerted, ‘and I 
bought you those in the market.’ 

‘ Gone without wishing me good-by ? ’ 

‘ How could he do that when he left before you were 
awake ? ’ 

‘ Why did he leave, then, before I was awake ? I think 
it was very strange — very. Yes, I think it was very 
rude of him.’ 

‘You seem to make the matter of great importance,* 
he muttered. ‘ The fact is, I was obliged to land early 
myself, and I told him I was sure you would be far 
from wishing him to stay behind on purpose to take 
leave of you (he has not seen his step-father for nearly 
two years). So on that assurance he was glad to leave 
a message and go.’ 

‘ I should have been sorry if he had stayed out of 
mere civility to — ’ 

‘ So I said,’ interrupted Tom. 

‘ Civility to me ; but most people would not have 
wished to do such a thing.’ 

‘You need not be so warm, Dorothea; it was not 
all my doing, though I admit that I thought it a good 
arrangement.’ 

‘ Indeed, and why ? ’ 

‘ W ell, if you must know, I wished to spare you from 
betraying a degree of interest which he would not 
know what to do with, and does not reciprocate.’ 

‘Tom!’ I spoke vehemently; I was so astonished 
and so indignant. 

‘And it seems,’ continued Tom, who then looked un- 
comfortable, ‘ it seems that I was right, for you make 
the fellow’s going of vast consequence.’ 

‘ Tom, will you look at me ? ’ 


OFF THE 8KELL108. 


251 


I was so angiy that I could not bear him to keep 
turning away his face, and my whole nature was roused 
to assert itself against his strange interference. 

He brought his eyes to meet mine. ‘ Come,’ he said, 
‘if you really do not care for Brandon, there is ne» 
harm done.’ 

‘Yes, there is. You speak as if I had really — as if 
I had actually behaved with unladylike — I mean, with 
unwomanly forwardness.’ 

‘ I have no such thought : I only know that you take 
an interest in him.’ 

‘Of course, I do; I ought, and shall. Who ever 
heard of that being made a fault ? ’ 

‘ What business had he,’ said Tom, ‘ to tell me all 
about his income, and say that he found it abundant so 
long as he did not want to marry, and he thought a 
man was much freer and happier single?’ 

‘ I dare say it came out in the ordinary course of 
conversation.’ 

‘ But why care so much about the matter ? ’ repeated 
Tom. 

‘I care that you should mistake me so thoroughly, 
and that you should think you have a right to inter- 
fere. I do not care that Mr. Brandon has gone with- 
out shaking hands with me, now that I know that you 
contrived it.’ 

‘An elder brother is generally supposed to have some 
rights.’ 

‘ O Tom ! you were older than I long ago ; but I am 
a woman now, and you are but a youth.’ 

‘Very well, then,’ still crestfallen and abashed; ‘if 
you are neither in love with him nor angry at his man- 
ner of going, we had better drop the subject.’ 

‘In love!’ I repeated with scorn. ‘He never paid 
me the slightest attention.’ 

I thought I had answered him, but he replied, 

‘ What has that to do with it ? Besides, what is atten- 
tior ? ’ 

J was a little posed, never having received any, of 
seen any paid ; but I could not appear so to Tom, so 1 


252 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


said that it was being absorbed in watchful observanon 
and interest in another person. 

‘ Then Bi*andon paid none. (I’ll put those flowers 
in water, or your warm hand will fade them.) Then, 
he or she who pays attention may love its object or 
may not (decidedly may not) ; for I have seen some 
paid which ’ (he poured water into my fixed vase, and 
put the flowers in it) — ‘ which I am expressly told 
implied only a natural and proper degree of interest. 
There, if you will change the water daily, they will 
last some time.’ 

He went out, quietly shutting the door behind him, 
while I stood stock still in a whirl of agitation, with 
which mingled some fear lest Mr. Brandon might have 
guessed his reason for proposing to dispense with a 
leave-taking, and a little regret at this unceremonious 
departure. 

It was true certainly that he interested me, but so he 
did others. Uncle Rollin had taken to him from the 
first. Tom liked to hear him talk. Mrs. Brand was 
his open admirer. Why then all this alarm because 
he excited the same feeling, and none other, in my 
mind ? At first, when left alone that fine morning, I 
felt frightened, thinking that I must have behaved 
foolishly ; but more mature reflection made me certain 
of the contrary, and, remembering Miss Tott’s pres- 
ence in the yacht, I hastened in to breakfast, eyes 
sparkling with the remains of excitement, head a little 
higher than usual, and mind bent on proving that my 
spirits were far from depressed by the departure of our 
guest. 

Though we were within fifty yards of the pier-head, 
and in perfectly still water. Miss Tott would not ven- 
ture below ; so when I had seen her, pale but hungry, 
enjoying a substantial breakfast under Mrs. Brand’* 
auspices, I began my own. 

Uncle Rollin complimented me on my appearance 
almost as soon as he came in. ‘ Such a color in your 
cheeks, my dear! The sea suits her, doesn’t it, Tom? 
One would hardly know her for the little white-faced 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


253 


thing that came on board from Ipswich. Hungry this 
morning, eh? That’s well. And so Brandon’s gone 
— a good fellow, a fine fellow; never sailed with a 
better.’ 

‘No, uncle; but you are not sorry to be alone, I 
dare say.’ 

‘ I don’t say that exactly. I did not at all mind him ; 
he never interfered with my comfort.’ 

‘ But now he is gone, can’t I have my lessons more 
regularly ? ’ 

‘ Ay, to be sure, to be sure ; I’ll give you one directly 
after prayers.’ 

I took my lesson ; it lasted only an hour, but I felt 
as if it never would be over. At last I was released 
and went quickly into my cabin, almost tumbling over 
Tom, who was sitting in the doorway. He caught me 
in his arms, and held me while he pushed the door to 
with his foot, and then he kissed me and said, ‘You’re 
not angry, Dorothea ? ’ 

‘ I have been angry.’ 

‘You are not now ; I did not mean any harm.’ 

‘ I don’t think I am — particularly angry.’ 

‘Well, I am sorry; give me a kiss. I really am 
sorry.’ 

So I kissed him, and we were reconciled ; but, alas I 
sad mischance, no sooner had he left me alone than this 
new turn of affairs utterly subdued me. I felt how 
cross I had been to Tom. His seeking a recon cilation 
of his own accord softened me. Even then I had many 
regrets about him, and some fears for his future ; and 
now he was gentle and anxious to conciliate. So I 
was touched, and began to shed tears. I cried and 
•obbed too, partly at Tom’s humility, but partly be- 
cause I was vexed with Mr. Brandon, and also sorry 
that I should never see him again. 

Well, it was a great pity, but I could not help it. I 
nad cried myself happier again, dried my eyes, and 
reached that stage of return to common feelings when 
one goes to the glass ^to see how red one’s eyes are, 
when Tom knocked again, and ame in exclaiming, 


254 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


•- O Dorothea! But what’s the matter? You’ve been 
crying.’ 

I did not say anything. 

‘ Could anything he more unlucky ? Here is Brandon 
come on board again ! The fact is, he said he should.’ 

‘ Oh ! I can not see him now, Tom ; I can not pos- 
sibly. He would see that I have been crying. Oh! 
do devise some excuse.’ 

‘ You won’t see him ? O Dolly ! you must ; it would 
look so odd 1 What is to be done ? It’s all my fault.’ 

‘ He must be asked to stay luncheon.’ 

Tom said he would go and press him to stay, but 
he came back saying that it could not be done ; Bran- 
don had brought his stepfather on board, and could 
only stay a quarter of an hour. 

While he was away on his errand I had felt that, 
after all Tom had said, I could not possibly let Mr. 
Brandon see the least appearance of regret in my man- 
ner, lest he should attribute it to sorrow at his depar- 
ture; and I thought sincerely enough that I would 
much rather not see him at all than be seen with the 
traces of tears on my face, and I actually trembled at 
the notion of encountering him. I had no veil but the 
one that I had laid over the dead baby ; so when Tom 
said I must come on deck, I snatched up a bonnet 
(there was some shade in a bonnet then), Tom put a 
scarf on for me, and I had a brown parasol. 

He came on deck with me and whispered, ‘ All right ; 
hold the parasol well over you.’ 

I saw somebody’s legs, and a voice belonging to them 
said, ‘ Miss Graham, I am glad to see you again.’ 

I shook hands mechanically, but kept the fiinge of 
my parasol fluttering over my eyes till I found that an 
introduction was going on between me and somebody 
else. ‘Allow me — my father.’ Now I was obliged 
to look up, and I saw a very aged gentleman standing 
l)eside him, a most venerable man with snowy hair. 
He took ofi* his hat and paid me some trifling compli- 
ment ; then he told me that he had come down to South- 
ampton to see his son, who had written him word when 
to expect him. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


255 


I said, ‘ I am so sorry my uncle is not on board.' 

‘ I regi-et it much,’ he replied. ‘ I should have liked 
to thank him for his goodness and his hospitality ; but 
I hope to see him and you, and you also, lieutenant ’ 
(addressing Tom), ‘at my house. My daughter and 
Brandon’s sisters will be most happy, most proud to 
make your acquaintance.’ 

Such a charming old man I have seldom seen : he 
was half a head taller than his son, who was little 
above the middle height ; and as he stooped towards me 
and paid his compliments, then turning, laid his hand 
lightly on the shoulder from which a sling for the in- 
jured arm depended, there was a grace and suavity in 
his manner, a cordial affection in his expression of 
gladness at having him home again, that I could not 
admire enough. 

As he talked, Mr. Brandon regarded him with satis- 
fUction, and I thought it was evident that he had come 
on board, not only that his father might express his 
obligations to my uncle, but that he might show us a 
relation of whom he was evidently so proud. 

He seemed to be about eighty years of age, had a 
radiant smile, and could attract everybody. Mrs. 
Brand was charmed; the sailors obviously revered his 
old white head that towered so much above theirs. 

He went over the yacht with Tom and his attentive 
son, and I, meanwhile, stood gazing towards South- 
ampton, watching the green weeds which the rising 
tide was slowly washing backwards and forwards, but 
not thinking of them. No; my thoughts were very 
uncomfortable. 1 was ill at ease, for when my eyes 
had met Mr. Brandon’s an intelligent look had leaped 
out of his : he saw, I knew he saw, that I had been 
shedding tears, and his cordial manner had changed 
instantly to one of restraint and even of embarrass-* 
ment. 

So I gazed over the vessel’s side at the old wall of 
Southampton, and the weed, and the Jersey steamer, 
just in^ and letting off her steam in shrill jerks of 
sound. 


256 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


At last Mr. Brandon came up the companion, stepped 
to my side, and lifted his hat. 

‘We are ffoin<jj now, Miss Graham. Good-by. 

‘ Good-by.’ 

‘ What shall I wish you ? Another patient, I think, 
since you are so skilful.’ 

‘What, another! when I have found the present one 
quite beyond my management.’ 

‘ I wish, then, that the next may be less refractory.’ 

‘ In that case I may echo the wish.’ 

‘ And less troublesome and as grateful.’ 

‘ I must not expect such a paragon. Good-by ; a 
pleasant journey.’ 

‘ And if, when he goes away, be gives you a ring, 
don’t wear it.’ 

‘Why not?’ 

‘ Because it would be very unfair, if you wore that 
fello'iFs ring and not mine? 

He laughed, and glanced at my hand ; true enough, 
his ring was not there, and I felt tempted to tell him 
that I was wearing it, notwithstanding, for it was in 
the little locket round my neck; but I resisted the 
temptation, and now the aged stepfather was making 
his adieus, and so, with smiles and mutual compli- 
ments, offers of hospitality, jokes and thanks, we all 
parted. 

‘ My uncle will be very thankful to have missed all 
this gratitude,’ said Tom, looking after them as they 
kissed their hands in the boat. ‘ How that fine old 
fellow talked — as if Brandon was anything better than 
another father’s son! Well, Dorothea, your eyes are 
tolerable now: shall we go ashore, order a fly, and 
take a drive among the fields? 

I knew he proposed this for my amusement, and I 
had been quite long enough at sea to think of fields 
with delight, so I agreed; and when we had taken 
leave of Miss Tott, who was going to town by the next 
train, we set forth, and he was so affectionate and kind 
all that day that I forgave him, over and over again, 
for what he had said in the morning. Besides, I had 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8, 


257 


seen Mr. Brandon ; liis joyous laugh, and air of pre- 
tended malice when he talked of that fellowh ring^ 
had done me good, and restored my self-respect; for 
now I thought, though he saw tears, he had also seen 
that I was not wearing his present, and my apparent 
carelessness of it had not hurt him — only amused 
him. 


258 


OFF THE SKRLLiaS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

But to mt> a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery is tho most 
li«meiidous object the whole creation. — Goldsmith. 

A fter dmner I generally made a point of retiring 
to my cabin as to a drawing-room, while Uncle 
Rollin and Tom sat over their wine. That night 
they sent Mrs. Brand to fetch me back, saying that it 
was dull for me to sit alone. 

It had been raining, the deck was damp and cheer- 
less, so they had settled themselves below for the even- 
ing, and I was glad to obey the summons and join 
them. They were deep in talk, Tom explaining, my 
uncle continually falling into mistakes. The subject of 
the discussion was Mr. Brandon and his family. 

‘ The old man,’ he said, ‘ is Brandon’s stepfather.’ 

‘ Why, I thought you said he was the father of that 
widow lady whom Brandon spoke of.’ 

‘ So I did, sir, but not by the same mother.’ 

‘Well, I cannot make it out. I hardly see how the 
second wife could have married three times in the 
course of so few years.’ 

‘I’ll just explain it to you as Brandon did to me. 
His mother, then quite a young woman, married a Mr. 
Brandon, who did not live till this son was born. Mr. 
Mortimer was her guardian, and is Brandon’s trustee as 
well as his stepfather. Well, when she had been a 
widow two years, she married a Mr. Grant, a Scotch 
minister, and they had three daughters, one of whom is 
married and gone to India. This Mr. Grant died when 
his wife was about thirty, and Brandon was about seven 
years old.’ 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


259 


‘Well, that was about twenty years ago.’ 

‘Twenty-one years ago. Then in due time she 
married this fine old man. I suppose he was about 
sixty — nearly twice her age — and they had one son. 
So, you see, Brandon, the Grants, and young Mortimer 
are all related. What you were confused about was the 
daughter of the old man by his former marriage, for he 
was a widower. She, you know, is only related to the 
young son, but they all call her sister, by way of re- 
spect, I suppose. She is between fifty and sixty. 

‘What, four families, and all live together?’ 

‘ So it seems ; but in point of numbers it is not at all 
an overwhelming household.’ 

‘ It’s not the number, boy, but the quarrelling.’ 

‘They don’t seem to quarrel, though the mother is 
dead. Mr. Mortimer is fond of his step-children. He 
must be a most amiable old fellow, I am sure. Bran- 
don says he never saw him till after the wedding, when 
he patted him on the head and gave him a sovereign. 
That, running off to spend it, he met some gipsies in a 
lane and showed it to them, whereupon they persuaded 
him to buy a young donkey of them with it. He said 
he rode the miserable little beast home, and, being 
afraid it would be taken from him, actually managed to 
get it up the back stairs without being observed, and 
secreted it in a light closet in his bed-room. The cir- 
cumstance was not discovered till the next morning, 
when the bride and bridegroom were awoke by its tre- 
mendous braying. He was delighted at his mother’s 
marriage.’ 

‘ Odd, for he knew already what a stepfather was.’ 

‘ But his experience of stepfathers seems to have 
been peculiar, for when I asked him if he remembered 
Grant, he said, “Yes, he used to make Grant rig ships 
for him, and play with him when his mother was ill ; 
in return for which he was expected to learn hymns 
and come into the study to say his prayers.” ’ 

So the conversation ended. I have often felt pleas- 
ure in hearing anecdotes about the childhood of peo- 
ple whon) I ^.ared for and looked up to One sees them 


260 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


thus under a new aspect, and feels a kind of tendemesa 
towards them, as they were in those far-off days. 1 
felt it then towards that little curly-headed urchin at 
his pranks; but when Uncle Rollin said, ‘Deep in 
thought, Dorothea ? What are you musing about ? ’ I 
was startled, and could not reply, ‘I was thinking 
about Mr. Brandon,’ for Tom had made it awkward for 
me even to mention his name. There was the real 
pity. He had put thoughts into my head that teased 
me. I did not like to say Mr. Brandon had given me a 
ring, lest there should be some mistake about it ; and so 
I hid it, and it made me uncomfortable and conscious 
whenever he was mentioned. 

I did not like to speak of him as I did of Miss Tott 
and the children ; the consequence was that I thought 
of him far more than I should have done otherwise, and 
made a kind of hero of him in my mind, towards whom 
I felt a certain growing enthusiasm, which affected my 
imagination, but, so far from making me wish to see 
him again, kept me keenly anxious to remain at a dis- 
tance ; a sort of girlish shyness made me think of him 
as a superior being. My feeling was precisely that 
which familiarity would have melted away, and if I had 
even talked about him the halo that surrounded him 
would have faded. But now, when the sea was rough 
and I had no book, when it rained and I could not go 
on deck, when the weather was calm and I sat in the 
place where I had talked to him, I was obliged to tor- 
ment myself with troublesome, teasing doubts and 
fears, as to whether he might have fancied, as Tom did, 
that 1 had given away my heart to him, or that I had 
not treated him with enough reserve. 

This went on for some time, and we cruised about 
here and there. My uncle only cared to be afloat, and 
Tom loved desolate places. He liked to cruise in lit- 
tle lonely creeks, among rocky islets — places where 
gulls bring up their families, and puffins sit, and pen- 
guins live and stare out foolishly at intruders. 

I liked this too, when I could land, but that was not 
often, for my uncle loved to give rocks a wide berth. 


OFF THE SHELL ms. 


261 


and I did not like to leave the yacht and go ashore in a 
hoat; but sometimes we used to lie in some snug little 
hai-hor, then I was happy, 

W e sailed up north, and I saw the shoals of herrings 
come down. Sometimes we got into the midst of one, 
and I saw them turn up their silvery sides and jostle 
one another, for they seemed to swim in several layers, 
and so thickly imbedded that the sea looked a little 
higher 'where they were, as if they lifted the water on 
their backs. 

I reared and trained many young sea-birds, — nearly 
twenty of them followed the yacht, and used to roost 
in the rigging. They would come down at my call to 
be fed, and when I would let them they would sit on 
my knee while I read, or perch on my head and shoul- 
ders. 

We had a delightful yachting tour all by the beauti- 
ful west coast of Ireland. I had always been accus- 
tomed to look upon this world as consisting of certain 
countries bordered by the sea ; now I began to think of 
it as a globe of water. I no longer thought of the 
shapes of continents, but of the shapes of the seas in 
which they lay. I could not help this. I began to at- 
tach great importance to places that had fine harbors ; 
islands were no good unless there was safe anchorage 
round them; rivers were delightful because we could 
sail up them. I soon began to know what rivers could 
take us on their bosoms, and how far we could go. 
Sometimes, when I came to a bridge and a town, it 
appeared surprising to me that so many people could 
live contentedly on shore ; and, after a few days spent 
in looking about me, I was generally glad to sail again. 

Sometimes at the towns on the coast-guard stations 
old naval officers and young ones came on board, and 
were made much of If they were very old friends, my 
uncle sometimes returned their visits. Tom often did, 
and not unfrequently one or two would come on board 
for a few days ; but we did not have the Mompessons, 
one of their children was ill, -^nd they put off their visit 
indefinitely. 


262 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


At last, about the middle of September, after loadins; 
ourselves with everything we could possibly want, and 
after many presents from my uncle to me, of ribbons, 
laces, shawls, gloves, scarfs, silks, and other most use- 
less adornments as I then thought them, we set sail for 
a winter cruise to the West Indies, and after that I was 
told I should see Rio. 

I was greatly delighted, and would fain have flung 
every scrap of finery into boxes and there left it till I 
landed ; but Mrs. Brand, as she sat in my cabin at work 
on the bows of a handsome sash, said to me, rather 
j)ointedly when I entered, one afternoon, ‘Dear me, 
ma’am, to think of your putting on that ugly “ water- 
proof.’” 

‘ Ugly is it ? ’ I answered ; and I turned my head 
over my shoulder, for I knew it was short, and that it 
showed the flounces of my gown beneath it. ‘ Well,’ I 
continued, ‘ I can’t always be thinking of my dress.’ 

‘Can’t you, ma’am?’ she answered, quietly. ‘Well, 
it’s lucky, then, that in general you don’t object to my 
thinking of it for you.’ 

She took oft’ my cloak, for it was wet ; and then, as I 
made no objection, she tried the sash against my waist. 

‘You can’t go on deck again,’ she said; ‘and as it 
only wants an hour to dinner-time, it would be a good 
thing if you was to let me dress you.’ 

‘ V ery well,’ I answered, for I was a little struck by 
her manner ; and I stood quite still while she took out 
vaiious things, and considering what would look well 
together, proceeded to put them on. 

‘You scarcely ever look at yourself in the glass, 
ma’am,’ she presently said. 

‘There is no occasion,’ I answered, laughing. ‘You 
take good care that I shall never leave your hands till 
I am perfectly neat and nice ! ’ 

‘ Most young ladies,’ she answered, a little reproach 
fully, ‘ look at themselves very frequent ! Master — he 
was saying, only yesterday to Mr. Graham, that you 
were improved to that degree, since you came on board, 
nobody evei could know you.’ 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


263 


‘ Do you think it is so ?’ I inquired, with pleasure. 

‘Of course,’ she answered; ‘you were so pale then. 
Not but what I liked the looks of you from the first. I 
thought,’ she continued, looking at me afiectionately, — 
‘ I thought you had the innocentest face anybody ever 
saw.’ 

‘You mean a baby face, don’t you?’ 

She laughed because I did ; but she returned to the 
Httack. 

‘ And they’re quite proud of your appearance. Both 
the gentlemen are. You look so graceful and slender, 
especially when you’re well dressed.’ And so she went 
on, ‘I should take a world of pains, if I were you, 
ma’am, to have them always proud of me, and be as 
particular every day as if there was to be ever so many 
strangers to dinner. You’ve got such dozens upon 
dozens of light kid gloves, why shouldn’t you wear ’em 
in the evening ; you’ve got such laces, such sashes, and, 
I don’t know what. Dear me, make yourself a charm- 
ing young lady with it all, or else after this one cruise^ 
you may depend on it^ you worUt stay on hoard long? 

She spoke with slow impressiveness; and I was so 
certain she had good ground for what she said that her 
words fell on me like a thunderbolt. I knew my being 
on board was a great pleasure to her. I knew that 
many things were said before her and Brand that were 
never said before me ; and I resolved, there and then, 
to follow her advice to the utmost. So, when she had 
dressed me in a lilac silk petticoat, with an embroidered 
white dress over it, and when she had given me a pair 
of lilac gloves of a still paler tint, I went up to the 
glass, thankfully acknowledged a great improvementj 
and looked at myself with much attention. 

‘Well, ma’am,’ she inquired, ‘don’t look so grave. 
Will it do?’ 

The gown had a light, transparent body, and I tO\Uw 
courage ; for I was sure I had never looked so well in 
my life. 

‘ I think it wants a little gold about it,’ I replied ; and 
ahe brought out a gold necklace, that Tom had given 


264 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


me, and a gold bracelet. So I put on n\y globes, and 
she said, — 

‘Now don’t be downhearted, ma’am; but just you 
give yourself all the airs that ever you can ! ’ 

I turned to kiss her; but I was rather in dismay, and 
as I came floating into the chief cabin, with my delicate 
skirts behind me, I felt myself blush with shyness and 
discomfort. 

I3ut some people are destined to find out things and 
others to act upon them. To describe the change in my 
uncle’s manner and Tom’s, too, would be quite impossi- 
ble ! And what amused me most, when I could dare to 
think of it, was that they were perfectly unconscious, 
both of the change and the cause of it. 

No, I never despised my fine array any more. I saw 
at once how much in their opinion it did for me, and 
though I caught sight of myself several times that 
evening in the different glasses, and thought I looked 
rather too much like a dressed-up flaxen-haired doll, I 
drew my long dress after me with all gravity, and wdien 
my uncle asked me to play on my new piano that he had 
bought for me, and which I had far too much neglected, 
I rose, and Tom opening it for me, I forebore to thank 
him, but took the attention as a matter of course, which 
I thought would have a good effect, and it had. 

I never once again went on deck when it rained, or 
blew so hard that I could not be well dressed ; and I 
had frequent consultations with Mrs. Brand as to what 
I looked best in. It appeared from various little thingg 
she said, that I had already been in danger of being 
l^laced with a family on shore, and I found that it was not 
my dear old uncle who felt that the yacht was an unfit 
place for me, but this brother whom I so much loved. 

I utterly forgot Mr. Brandon in my desire to make 
myself agreeable and ornamental. Tom was so fond of 
seeing pretty things about him, and graceful ways, that 
I could almost always tell whether he liked my dress or 
not ; and Mrs. Brand was so clever, that there was no 
need for me to weary him by want of variety. 

So I dressed to please my old uncle and my young 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


265 


brother ; 1 found out, with Mrs. Brand’s help, what was 
becoming ; and, strange to say, my lot has been so cast, 
that it has been my duty as well as my interest to study 
the art of dress ever since. 

That was a delightful winter; but Tom has published 
an account of those travels, and if I were to write of them 
they would fill volumes. We went gliding about, first 
among the West Indian Islands, — left our own bare 
green levels with their low-lying broidery of meadow 
flowers, and went sliding down over the polished water 
to the middle of the world ; then, while all the top of 
it was white, and all its best things were neatly put 
away, and covered up till spring, under the snow, we 
hung about in little land-locked coves, with polished 
azure floors, and cliff's as pale as cinnamon, and some- 
times stole into the edges of the steaming forests, and 
saw dangerous wedges from the sun shoot straight in 
like gold thunderbolts, and the sleepy caymans welter- 
ing in their lukewarm swamps would snap at them, and 
stretch their yawning jaws as if to take them in. 

We fluttered about here and there, from continent to 
island, we treated all with great respect ; it did not 
belong to us who lived on the edge and upper fringes 
of the earth, and there was danger in the beauty and 
beauty in the danger. 

Then it was that after awhile I began to be sure that 
the world was yet young ; she was a wild thing that 
God and His time had only half tamed, and sometimes 
by day and always by night, I derived from her ways 
and the sleep that was on her a consciousness of her 
life as a whole. 

For after sunset, till about midnight, it would often 
seem that she was slumbering while yet everything on 
her that had life was restless and stirred, and came out 
to Irink ; and they called and cried to one another and 
to their Maker (for they are not so unconscious of God 
as men are), at least it has long appeared so to me ; but 
they do not love Him as many of us do, and some of 
them seemed to cry to Him defiantly, and others* gruucu 
bled and complained. 

10 


266 


OFF TEE SKELLT08. 


Then, about the dead middle of the night, in soma 
parts of the tropical zones, but not in all, there would 
come a pause, as if the living creatures were appeased 
and at rest, and thereupon the dark beautiful world 
would wake up, and while the stars in their courses 
made it plain to me how fast she was rolling, a sort of 
murmur would sound, whether from within and sent up 
from her mighty heart, or from without, and borne by 
the multitudes of the waves, I cannot tell ; but it is not 
to be forgotten when once it has been heard, and it 
seemed like a message sent up into the heaven to re- 
mind her Maker, how he had held her in hand very 
long, and sent her on very fast, and she was not 
weaiied, but altogether amazed at the greatness of the 
way. I was so strangely impressed with these sensa^ 
tions, that I often came up in the night, and sometimes 
Tom — who saw how awful and tender the night- 
time seemed to me — would call me when there was 
anything more than usually beautiful to be seen. It 
was always the same, there was a message, and it was 
going up to God. Sometimes when I slept after such 
a midnight watching, I have dreamed that I heard an 
answer, ‘ It was not long, it was only a very little whiU 
that she had rolled. It was not far — but a very littU 
way^ 

While we remained, which we did all the winter in 
the glorious heat, Tom was sometimes very genial, and 
generally he was calm ; but as we gradually drew up 
homeward again, I observed the same silent brooding 
of thought in his manner that had struck me so much 
months before. Every day as we came up northward, 
it fell down over him. He was very dull — almost 
spiritless. Oh, how different from that Snap whom 
once I had played with ; he was altered even since I 
had come on board, more silent and more absent. I 
could now hardly recognize a trace of what he had 
been in his early boyhood, and his evident avoidance of 
all confidential talk, his dislike of being alone with me, 
and his restlessness made me often seriously afraid that 
something — I knew not what — was impending. 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


267 


I had been greatly struck with his silence and altera- 
tion of character when first I left school, but I had 
made myself believe that he felt shy in my company, on 
account of our having been parted so long. 

Afterwards, when I saw how listless he was, and then, 
that when we were at Southarnpton, there was a sort 
of unnatural eagerness about him, I was compelled to 
give up that fancy; the change had nothing to do with 
me, I could neither influence him nor interest him, I 
must be content to talk to him and play to him when 
he wished it. I must take him as I found him. 

When we got to Southampton, and sent for our let- 
ters to the hotel where they were always directed, I 
knew — or at least felt — that there would be none for 
me. I had no correspondents, my father never wrote. 
Amy only wrote twice a year. So I went forth with 
Mrs. Brand to take a walk, and I thought I had never 
seen anything so lovely as the airs the daisies were giv- 
ing themselves, and the golden celandines that April 
morning. So small and so pleased to show themselves, 
how diflerent from the great trailing passion-flowers I 
had come from ; creatures obviously so indifierent who 
looked at them. The whole of these northern flowers 
looked so modest, and yet so conscious of man. I 
gathered a few daisies, and as I came back to our sit- 
ting-room at the hotel. Uncle liollin tossed me a letter, 
saying,— 

‘ There, Dorothea, you may do as you like, but I shall 
decline, of coarse.’ 

It was a letter from Mr Mortimer, and contained a 
pressing invitation to him, Tom, and myself to come and 
stay with him and his family. The country, he said, 
was looking beautifully, the weather was fine ; his son 
was impatient to renew his acquaintance with Tom ; his 
daughters longed to make mine, &c. 

‘ Do you wish to go ? ’ 

I could not tell ; I had been away so long that I felt 
as if I should be awkward and shy, and I faltered and 
said that I had never paid a visit in my life, and that 
this one seemed formidable. 


268 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


‘ You will want some new gowns,’ said Tom, who now 
entered, and evidently knew the contents of the letter. 

The notion of a visit in the country among green 
hills, fields, and hedges, away from the sound of the sea, 
and where I might ramble far and wide, was delightful 
to my yearning heart; but then, the conversation with 
Tcm, and Mr. Brandon’s look when he saw my red 
eyes, came into my mind, and a kind of sensitive pride 
and shame kept me silent. 

‘ You cannot hesitate, of course, Dorothea,’ said Tom, 
‘ and I shall go, certainly ; I never argued in my life so 
much as I did with that fellow, and I should like to 
have it out with him if I could ! ’ 

‘ If she prefers to stay, she may,’ observed Uncle 
Rollin. 

But no, I did not prefer it ; the yacht was calm, and 
safe, and quiet, and this visit, I knew, would lift me into 
a different world. I was very much excited, even at the 
thought of it, and Mr. Brandon’s face and voice, which 
I had lost from me, and almost for a time forgotten, 
seemed to come near to me again now that I was ap- 
proaching his home, and make me feel awkward and 
shy ; but I longed for the land, so I told Tom I would 
accept the invitation. During the winter, delightful as 
I had found its splendid light, color, and heat, I had 
often felt an extraordinary pining for the green grass of 
my own country, and for the cheerful voices of my own 
country folk. I wanted to use my tongue, my hands, 
to be busy, even to be teased ; also, to be in a house ! 

I thought of a landsman’s life with romantic interest; 
I had visions moreover of Christmas gatherings, things 
which I had actually never seen, and would often dream 
that I was digging, or that I was gathering buttercups, 
or that I was walking to a village church, and could 
hear the bells ring. Yet I did not like to leave the 
yacht, because it was my home, nor Uncle Rollin be- 
cause he and I suited each other so well. I was get- 
ting on with my navigation, too, and he was so fond of 
me, yet it made me far more content to go that I was 
to have Mrs. Brand with me ; whatever I might fear as 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


209 


to his leaving me with some motherly woman in a sea- 
port, I knew he would never leave her behind ; she and 
Brand were necessary to his comfort ; so I felt sure that 
however long we staid he would wait for us, and set 
about my preparations for the visit with some security 
of heart. 

As usual he heaped a quantity of finery on me, and 
showed an unaccountable desire that I should do him 
credit as far as all my habiliments were concerned. I 
took several walks with him, during which we inspected 
the outside of shop windows, and a large assortment of 
things went with me, which I resolved should never see 
the light unless I found the family just the very reverse 
of the sort of people I expected. 

I have so many journeys to describe, my life has been 
so much spent in travelling, that I shall say nothing of 
this one, but pass on to the moment when Tom and I 
took leave of Uncle Rollin, and got into a railway car- 
riage in a pouring rain. 

We spent four hours in the train. I shall never for- 
get what happy hours they were. I quite forgot Mr. 
Brandon and all the strangers I was going to, for there 
were real English cottages to see, and homely farm- 
yards, with poultry, cattle, trees just breaking into leaf, 
fallows soaked with spiing rain, lambs, — all common 
things, — but to me they were opening paradise. 

The weather grew fine, and then sunny, as we ad- 
vanced westward. The little station we were bound 
for appeared at last, the train stopped, and in the balmy 
delightful air I smelt the perfume of violets. 

‘ There’s Brandon,’ exclaimed Tom, ‘ and a great tall 
boy, and two ladies.’ 

We were soon out of the carriage; introductions 
were going on, laughter and welcome. A tall girl was 
introduced as my sister, Miss Grant, and another as my 
sister Elizabeth, and the youth as my brother Valen- 
tine. This last was a remarkably fine young fellow, 
with light-brown eyes, a smiling face, and a cracked 
voice. A countrified servant was soon dragging out 
our luggage under Mrs. Brand’s superintendence, and 


270 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 


while we waited, my eyes, in spite of myself, were 
drawn to a bunch of primroses that one of the girls 
held. I pretended not to care for them, but could not 
help taking another and another look, whereupon 
the cracked voice spoke in my behalf, — 

‘ Lou, Miss Graham wants your primroses.’ 

The tall boy took them from her without ceremony, 
and gave them to me. ‘Would you like some violets,’ 
he continued, ‘ this is a very violety place.’ 

‘Yes, indeed, I should.’ 

‘ Ah ! I thought so, Lou.’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ Keep up Miss Graham’s spirits while I’m gone, by 
timely allusion to her own demesne ; talk about shell- 
fish, the grampus, and anything else that’s cheerful and 
salt.’ 

By this time the train had gone on, and Mrs. Brand, 
looking as if she was going to be led to immediate ex- 
ecution, was sitting still while the luggage was de- 
posited in a carty by tlie thin old servant who wore a 
suit of drab. I was obliged to leave her to herself; and 
Mr. Brandon put me into a large heavy old carriage 
which was waiting. The two girls followed, and then 
he said he should wait behind to bring on an old Scotch 
aunt, who was coming in a few minutes by a train from 
the west. Tom declared his intention of remaining be- 
hind also; and at the last minute before we started, 
Valentine came up without his cap, which was full of 
violets, white and blue, and plenty of wet green leaves. 

‘Now what do you mean by this imprudence,’ said 
his brother, ‘ when your voice is cracked in three places 
already? ’ 

As if that was a sufficient answer, Valentine replied 
that the floAvers were for me, and he insisted on getting 
inside ; and he helped me to make them up into a large 
bunch, while he drove slowly on through a country 
lane. 

I felt almost too happy to speak; the scent of the 
flowers was so sweet, and the green hedges, with their 
half-opened leaves, were so fair. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


271 


I looked *out and saw daffodils hanging their yellow 
heads in the warm air ; rooks were sailing and cawing 
over a group of elms, under which we were passing. 

‘ Romantic, isn’t it ?’ said Valentine, again coming neai 
to my thought. 

After the rain there was a delightful smell of fresh 
earth. I made some remark about it, and he replied ; 
‘ We call that clay. Ruts a foot deep. Lou, I say 
there are some goslings. I know Miss Graham wants 
some goslings.’ 

He stopped the carriage and got out. We were 
passing through a little wood; I saw wild anemones, 
and heard birds piping on the boughs ; the delicate 
sunshine of the north was sifting through them, and 
dropping about on the grass as lightly as if it felt 
that it was taking a liberty. Down in a hollow, gleam- 
ing white in the creases between cushions of moss, I 
saw wandering patches of snow, for the spiing had been 
late, and warm weather had come on suddenly. 

The Miss Grants, now left alone with me, made a few 
remarks, which I answered mechanically; while with 
eyes and ears I took in the delightsomeness of my 
home. 

Presently Valentine returned, with some twigs of 
willow covered with downy catkins. 

‘ Called goslings by the native children,’ he observed, 
as he got in ; ‘ for this is an inhabited island. Do you 
see that red erection, with a green door?’ 

‘ Yes, certainly.’ 

‘ That is one of the houses of the native population ; 
places where, as you would say, they, “ turn in ; ” but 
where, as we say, they “ hang out.” Liz, I know by the 
look of you that you’re going to speak. There’s no 
need.’ 

‘Really, Val,’ exclaimed the sister, ‘ you must not be 
so impertinent.’ 

‘ You don’t understand the nautical temper. I ought 
to do. Haven’t I got up the names of no end of ropes 
and spars ? Don’t I know all about the Gulf Stream t 
Why, I’ve studied tonnage and pennons, and storeS| 


272 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


that I might meet her in her own element ; but now 
she has run aground I find I’m cut adrift, for her 
thoughts are set upon dirt and weeds. You like me, 
don’t you, Miss Graham ? ’ 

‘Very mucli, indeed.’ 

‘Ah, I told you so, Lou. There’s another cottage, 
Now you wouldn’t have found out, unless I told you, 
that I helped to paint that door. When I was young — 
youngish — I was very fond of paint.’ 

‘You were about seven years old,’ said Liz. 

‘Yes,’ replied Valentine. ‘Our gardener once lived 
there, and when he went away, St. George got papa to 
let him whitewash the inside himself, for his own pleas- 
ure. I helped, of course, and then he painted it up. And 
I remember to this day what joy it was to hear the slap 
of the brush upon the wood ! We laid out the garden, 
too ; then we built a pigsty. Papa and mamma used to 
come down every day to look at us. I helped, as well 
as I could; and it was very good fun. You see that 
donkey-shed. St. George built that, too ; but I fell off 
it and broke my arm.’ 

‘ Is St. George a bricklayer ? ’ 

‘To think of your not knowing! Why, we call 
Giles so because mamma did. Now we are coming to 
a turn in the lane, and you will see our house — my 
father’s house — described in “ The County Guide 
Book” as “the modest but substantial residence of 
Daniel Mortimer, Esq., Justice of the Peace, with one 
long wing.” ’ 

‘ Which has the wing ? ’ 

‘ You will judge of that when you have seen Daniel 
Mortimer, Esq., and his modest residence ; but I thought 
yon had seen my father. Haven’t you ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; I shall not easily forget him.’ 

‘ Ah ! every one says I’m my father’s own son ; and 
that’s more than Giles can say, — or, indeed, others who 
shall be nameless. Liz and Lou look very prim just 
now ; but you should see them on Sunday morning, 
quarrelling as to whose turn it is to walk to church with 
papa. That’s a painful spectacle.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


273 


Liz and Lou did not seem in the least to resent this 
speech, but sat back in the carriage, opposite one 
another, calmly and idly good-humored. Neither was 
pretty ; but both were rather attractive. They were a 
good deal alike — being tall, of full figure, hair brown, 
and falling in natural curls, and faces rather broad. 

They had brown eyes, but here the resemblance be- 
tween them ceased, for Lou had a good set of teeth 
and a well-formed mouth, and was fair; but Liz had 
prominent teeth, and what is sometimes called a muddy 
complexion. 

They now pointed out a good-sized square house as 
their home ; — it was of red brick, stood in pleasant 
grounds, and had some fine beech-trees about it. 

In five minutes we had stopped at the door, and Mr. 
Mortimer’s white head appeared. He handed me out, 
and took me into a hall paved with blue and white 
stone, and hung with fishing-rods and guns. 

He took me through it into a small room, where sat 
a lady, with her feet on the fender, reading a novel. 
This, I found, was his widowed daughter, Mrs. Henfrey. 
A tiresome person I then thought her, for she made me 
sit by the fire, insisting languidly that I must be cold, 
and mildly positive that I was dreadfully fatigued. 

In the meantime the two girls and Valentine, having 
done their duty by me in bringing me home, declared 
that they positively must go and meet Aunt Christie ; 
and they set off across the fields, being plainly visible 
from the window where I sat. 

I wished I was with them. 


12 * 


A 


274 


OFF THE SKELLIOB. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

• It was a hairy cubit, sae proud he crept alang, 

A fbckless hairy cubit, and merrily he sang: 

My Minnie bids me bide at hame until I get my wings; 

I’ll show her soon my soul’s aboon the warks o’ creeping things.* 

Kingslbt. 

I WAS left with Mrs. Henfrey for a quarter of an 
hour, and shot glances now and then through the 
window at an old-fashioned garden full of gravel 
walks and formal beds, in which grew patches of red 
and white and blue hyacinths, and crown imperial 
lilies, and jonquils, and delightful brown wallflowers 
and lilac primroses. 

After this, Lou and Liz, Tom, Mr. Brandon, and 
Valentine, all came in together, bearing with them a 
tall, bony Scotchwoman, who was very much blowsed, 
and rather muddy, from having tramped through the 
woods with them, but she was in as high spirits as 
any of them, and the noise and cheerful chattering they 
all made delighted me and made my heart dance. 
They were very hungry, they said, and it was long 
past lunch time, so the old Scotch lady and I were hur- 
ried up-stairs to divest ourselves of our travelling gear, 
and then we were taken into a large dining-room with 
sash windows and heavy red curtains, a wide fireplace, 
and a somewhat faded Turkey carpet. 

Everything was difierent from my expectations, but 
nothing was so difierent as Mr. Brandon; and I had 
become so accustomed to my uncle’s exceeding shyness, 
the amount of attendance with which he surrounded 
himself, and the gilded richness and over-polish and 
luxury of all the fittings in the yacht, that there was 
something very delightful to me in the unconscious 


OFF TEE SKELLIQS. 


27fi 

c&se of everybody about me, the absence of servants, 
and the comfortable old furniture, that looked as if it 
had been unchanged for years. 

‘What interests you, Miss Graham?’ asked Valen- 
tine. 

What most interested me was to find Tom already 
talking freely to Aunt Christie, who sat by him bolt 
upright, with a clear sparkle in her pale blue eyes, and 
a large cap and collar of the very stiflTest lace ; but I 
answered : 

‘Among other things, the roomy amplitude of this 
house ; so different from the saloon in the yacht ; and I 
like these high ceilings and wide doors.’ 

‘Oh, I thought you were looking at the pictures. 
There are Lizzy and Louisa behind you, and there is 
Giles. Papa had them done : they were in the Royal 
Academy exhibition last year ; then they went back to 
the artist, and we have only Jiad them a fortnight.’ 

I cast a glance behind me, saw two shepherdesses in 
white, — was instantly aware that Lizzy and Lou were 
flattered, but, luckily, was not asked what I thought. 

‘And that’s St. George opposite.’ 

‘You can’t think, Graham,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘what 
a life I am leading just now in consequence of that 
portrait.’ 

‘ But is that meant for Mr. Brandon ? ’ I asked. 

‘Meant for him ! — of course it is,’ exclaimed Valen- 
tine. ‘ Lizzy ! Miss Graham won’t believe that is Giles. 
She thinks it too flattering.’ 

‘ I did not say anything of the kind. I think it is a 
very agreeable picture.’ 

‘ What is the matter with it, then ? ’ asked Valentine. 

‘ As a likeness, do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Yes ! — take a good look at him, and then see if it ia 
not like.’ 

I did take a good look. I saw not only that this 
same St. George was unlike the portrait, but he was 
delightfully unlike the image of his former self, which 
existed in my mind. He was even a little put out of 
countenance when I looked at him. I had f»*lt very shy 


276 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


at the notion of seeing that man again ; but this man, I 
felt as much at ease with as if he had been an entire 
stranger. So after considering him for a moment, and 
finding that I was expected to reply, I said, ‘ Nothing 
is the matter ; but that it is not like.’ And I hoped 
they would not ask me whether I thought it flattering 
— for I did think so — and I felt a sudden sense of joy 
and freedom, for I had faced the idea which had tor- 
mented me, and it had vanished into air. 

It was evident that these portraits were just then 
subjects of frequent family discussion, and that the 
opinion of a stranger was thought valuable. 

‘ The first thing papa asks you when he comes in,’ 
observed Valentine, ‘will be whether you like that 
picture ; and if you do not like it, he won’t like you. 
He thinks it perfection. I hear him and sister in the 
hall ; they always come in when they think Giles has 
helped all round. Now you’ll see !’ 

I looked at it again and liked it less ; then, while the 
original talked and laughed and made his dog beg for 
bones, I noticed him. I had always observed the pe- 
culiar grace of his figure, but he was so closely cropped 
when in the yacht, that he had an air of a convict 
about him. His hair was now grown ; it was dark and 
stood back from his face with rather a cloud-like 
effect. His bruises and scorches had disappeared, and 
his face, though healthful in appearance, had no ruddy 
tints. His hair had no gloss, that in the portrait shone ; 
but, on the whole, though he was not handsome, there 
was something striking in his appearance and distin- 

f uished about him ; and how he had managed to turn 
imself into such a different person I could not think. 
Mr. Mortimer now entered with his daughter, and 
took his place at the head of the table. Silence was 
preserved; everybody looked at me. Mr. Brandon, 
though he pretended to occupy himself with a cold 
round of beef, was evidently in amused expectation 
of the question which sure enough was propounded 
almost directly. 

‘And what do you think of my pictures, eh, Mu)8 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 277 

Graham? Gcod likeness that over the chimney-piece 
— uncommonly good ; don’t you think so ? ’ 

Obliged to answer, I replied that I had not noticed 
much likeness at first, but perhaps it would grow upon 
me. 

He looked surprised ; took up his glass to examine it 
anew. ‘ Couldn’t be better, — a wonderful art is por- 
trait painting! Well, now, what fault do you find 
with it ? ’ 

He looked straight at me, and I knew that every one 
else was looking too, Tom included. Nothing but the 
truth and the whole truth would do, so I wished to say 
it, and, as I hoped, to have done with it. 

‘ I think it is fiattered ; but perhaps it does no jus- 
tice to the original ? ’ 

‘ Flattered ! ’ he exclaimed, with evident astonish- 
ment, ‘ and does no justice ! The two things sound like 
contradictions. ‘ Flattered ! ’ 

‘Well, papa,’ said Valentine, ‘you must admit that 
those eyes are blue ! ’ 

‘ So are Mr. Brandon’s,’ I remarked ; and turning to 
encounter them, I saw, to his amusement and mine, that 
they had a decidedly gray hue. ‘ Ah, well ! ’ I could 
not help saying, ‘I’m sure they used to look blue in the 
yacht.’ But this speech was followed by such a chorus 
of laughter that I should have felt discomfited if Tom 
had not joined in it and seemed as much amused as 
any one. ‘ It must have been the green and yellow 
bruises that made^them look blue,’ I continued, by way 
of excuse for this want of observation, and then I was 
urged on by the family to make some further remarks, 
which Mr. Mortimer caused Valentine to repeat to 
him. 

‘She says,’ exclaimed Valentine, ‘that Giles has a 
much more original face than the portrait.’ 

‘ Vou are a very original little girl,’ said Aunt 
Christie. 

‘ Miss Graham has no wish to be original,’ said Mr. 
Brandon, ‘if you would only let her alone. Never 
mind, my liege,’ he continued, raising his voice and 


278 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


speaking to his step-father; ‘ no one is so good a jndg« 
of a portrait as the person it was done for ; and if you 
are pleased the thing is good, it could not be better.’ 

But Mr. Mortimer again returned to the charge. 

‘ How can a portrait be both flattered and the reverse?* 

Then Tom came to the rescue, and said that could 
easily be ; the gentleman could be made prominent at 
the expense of the man ; the features might be enno- 
bled, and yet be made to express a meaner soul. 

‘Ah — hem!’ said Mr. Mortimer. ‘Giles, I’ll take 
some more beef. He’s the very image of his dear 
mother ; her breathing image ! ’ 

‘ Graham, I wonder what sort of a portrait you would 
make ? ’ observed Mr. Brandon. 

‘ I’m too sublimely ugly to look well on canvas,’ said 
Tom. ‘ I had a photograph done lately for my sister, 
but the features did not seem to have made up their 
minds as to their places ! The eyes were everywhere. 
I did not notice the nose, but the mouth seemed to be 
nowhere.’ 

Aunt Christie looked at him with surprise. 

‘ Graham flatters himself that he’s very ugly,’ said 
Mr. Brandon. ‘ I don’t see it myself ; he s^ys real ugli- 
ness distinguishes a man.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Tom, addressing Aunt Christie, ugliness 
of the right sort is a kind of beauty. It has some of 
the best qualities of beauty — it attracts observation 
and fixes the memory. Now, you’ll find that you won’t 
easily forget me.’ 

He turned full upon her, and she had not a word to 
say. No doubt she did think him ugly, and she actu- 
ally looked quite out of countenance until, Valentine 
exclaiming that no one had admired the new carving- 
knife, Mr. Brandon took it up and displayed its pecu- 
liarities ; it was a circular thing, and looked sufficiently 
formidable. 

‘ It was given to me by a friend of mine, who is a 
poulterer,’ he reniarked. 

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Mrs. Henfrey; ‘don’t believe 
a wonl he says, IVtiss Grahana,’ 


OFF TEE 8KELLIGS. 


279 


‘ Doesn’t he make a good portion of his Income by 
breeding poultry, and doesn’t he contract with a man 
in London to sell it ? Doesn’t he send it up by cart- 
fuls ? I say he is a poulterer, only the oddness of the 
thing is that he stipulates to be allowed to kill every 
single bird himself, unless his friends kill them for 
him.’ 

‘ Horrid man ! ’ I exclaimed ; ‘ only think of taking 
delight in wringing the necks of cart-loads of poor 
creatures ! ’ 

‘ He doesn’t wring their necks,’ said Mrs. Henfrey, 
‘ he shoots them. Pheasants, you know ! ’ 

‘Oh!’ 

‘ It’s only his way of putting things.’ 

‘ The poor birds were -so tame the last time I went 
out with him that they came running up to us as if to 
be fed. That’s manly sport, you know. I’ll never shoot 
with him again.’ 

‘ But I mind the day when ye were uncommonly fond 
of a gun,’ said Aunt Christie. ‘ There was the old 
matchlock your grandfather Brandon gave you ; it was 
almost as long as himself ; and when ye complained to 
the mannie Murdock how it kicked — “ Kick, does 
she ? ” said he, taking the part of the old gun ; “ well, 
I’d sooner be kicked by her than by a Christian.” ’ 

‘ So would I,’ he answered. ‘ Some Christians kick 
very hard. Yes, I was a murderous little wretch. I 
remember the first rabbit I blew to pieces with it — I 
almost wept for joy, and grudged going to sleep at 
night and losing sight of my own gun.’ 

‘ What are they talking about ? ’ asked Mr. Mortimer, 

‘ About St. George’s old gun, papa,’ answered Valen- 
tine, who sat on his left hand ; ‘he gave it to me, you 
know, when I was a very small boy ; but I was not 
allowed to load it ; so I used to sit by it, and rub it up 
here and there with sand-paper, and when I went out 
I used to lock it up in the attic, and wear the door-key 
round my neck, lest any one should get it. 

‘ Ay-e,’ said Aunt Christie, making a sound almost 
two syllables long of that little word, ‘ how your fiithei 


280 


OFF THE SKELLIOa. 


emiles ! ’ He did not hear her, and she went on. * Do 
ye mind, Giles, yer speech as a child, when I asked you 
what the new papa was like — ye were hopping round 
the table, and little fat Emily after ye. “ Some people, 
when they smile,” ye answered, as gravely as possible, 
“ some people, when they smile, only stretch out their 
mouths; but when the new -i i i- i . i ^ 



shop.” That was because 


don, and ye were so delighted with the shops when the 
gas was lit.’ 

‘ If you go into all the family anecdotes that exist in 
your capacious memory, you must be put to death,’ he 
answered, ‘ we can’t stand it ! ’ 

‘No,’ said Liz. ‘Now, sister, hasn’t she told that 
anecdote a dozen limes at least?’ 

Sister, who was just rising to leave the room with 
Mr. Mortimer, made answer that ‘ no doubt it had been 
told before.’ 

‘ And I am sure I know no reason why I am to forget 
those old days,’ said the joyous old woman. 

‘Ah ! ’ said Valentine, ‘those were happy days. Aunt 
Christie, when we were young.’ 

‘ Speak for yourself, laddie,’ she answered ; ‘ for my 
part, I often feel very inconveniently young yet ; I feel 
a spring of youthful joy in me sometimes which is 
strangely at variance with circumstances. It would be 
more to my credit if I could repress it, and I’m going 
to try.’ 

‘No, don’t, dear,’ said Mr. Brandon. 

‘You’re just right, love,’ said Liz. 

‘Now, Giles,’ exclaimed the old lady, menacing him 
with a spoon, ‘let me alone, and you too, miss; you 
don’t consider how you crumple my cap, kissing before 
company ! There’s Mr. Graham just scandalized, and 
no wonder.’ 

‘ Graham feels rather faint at present,’ observed Mr. 
Brandon, ‘ but when I tell him that you belong to us 
all—’ 

‘Yes, to us all,’ inten*upted Lou; ‘but not to all 
equally.’ 


OFF TEE t^KELLIQS. 


28 ] 


‘Their mother was my niece,’ said Miss Christie’ 
• and Mr. Grant was a far-away cousin besides.’ 

‘Cousins don’t count,’ observed Tom, ‘particularly 
Scotch cousins.’ 

‘ So I tell her,’ said Mr. Brandon. 

‘Don’t they!' exclaimed Miss Christie. ‘Well, 
there’s nothing more interesting to an intelligent mind 
than relationship, if ye consider it rightly. Why, dear 
me, I can trace the Brandon voice through fifteen fami- 
lies. Then the Grants all walk as if they’d been drilled. 
And as to the MacQueens (my mother was a Mac- 
Queen), I would almost engage to challenge any one of 
them by the handwriting.’ 

As she appeared to address me, I answered, ‘ Then 1 
hope their characters are as much alike as their writing ; 
for it always seems to me that one can judge so well 
what people are by how they write.’ 

‘Of some qualities one may certainly judge,’ said 
Tom ; ‘ and of the temper, the amount of energy, and 
of course the age and sex.’ 

Both the Grants and their aunt declared themselves 
of a contrary opinion, and we were soon in the midst 
of a vehement discussion, every one having a letter or 
two to produce, folding down middle or ends, that only 
select sentences might be seen ; and being entreated to 
show more, and declining with pretended confusion. 

At first Mr. Brandon took no part in the discussion, 
but after he had seen us guessing, and being generally 
wrong, and sometimes oddly right, he said with gravity, 
‘ I have some writing here that I think very interesting ; 
I would rather it did not go all round the table, but 1 
should like Miss Graham’s opinion on it.’ 

He was standing on the rug under his portrait, and 
one of his sisters proposed to pass the letter across the 
table to me, but he declined, and coming round to my 
chair put into my hand an envelope, out of which he 
had drawn the letter just so far as to show these words, 
written in a very small and peculiarly deliuate female 
hand. 

‘ My very dear Giles, I am pleased to find that you 


282 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


propose to shorten your stay at — ’ here the sheet 
was folded down. ‘Am I to read all I can see?’ I 
inquired. ‘ Oh ! yes, but do not open the sheet, for the 
letter is confidential.’ Confidential indeed, for it ran 
thus — ‘ There is nothing that I find so difficult as to do 
without you, and this feeling increases on me day by 
day.’ 

That was all — the signature was covered. I wished 
he had not given me such an affectionate letter to read, 
especially as he chose to limit the confidence to me. 

‘ What do you think of the writing ? ’ he inquired. 

‘ How very hard that we are not to see it ? ’ ex- 
claimed Valentine. ‘Is it a lady’s hand, Miss Gra- 
ham ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! yes.’ 

‘Ah! do I guess whose? I should rather say so! 
Does it express counsel, and a large mind, and extreme 
delicacy ? ’ 

‘ And a love of gardening and music ? ’ cried Louisa, 
evidently thinking, like Valentine, of some special 
person. 

‘ I don’t know about the gardening,’ I replied. 

‘ Do you think it is a young lady ? ’ asked Mr, 
Brandon. 

‘Yes, 1 should say so, decidedly; but she has not 
been taught in a modern school, for the letters are 
round.’ 

‘Round!’ exclaimed Valentine. ‘Oh! then I give 
it up.’ 

‘ 1 wish you would say what you think,’ said Mr. 
Brandon, ‘ for this writing really is deeply interesting 
to me. Do you think the writing expressive of a hast;^ 
temper ? ’ 

‘No, it flows — I think it means gentleness, and even 
spirits. This person is seldom in a hurry, and has done 
this deliberately. The hand looks as if it had not been 
much used since the writer left school.’ 

Mr. Brandon really looked unutterable things ; but I 
thought it was quite fair that he should suffer for hav- 
ing handed out such a letter. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


283 


‘ Do you think the writer’s disposition likely to be 
affectionate ? ’ he inquired. 

‘lean foim that opinion without any aid from the 
writing.’ 

‘ Dear me ! this mystery grows very interesting ! ’ 
exclaimed Lou. 

‘ Ah ? ’ said Mr. Brandon, with a sigh that I thought 
affected. ‘ You mean that you could form that opin- 
ion from the words; but the writer’s actions leave me 
no room to doubt that these but feebly reflect the 
heart.’ 

‘ Why, he’s actually sentimental ! ’ cried Liz. ‘ Giles, 
can this be you ? ’ 

‘ May I express a hope, then, that the affection is 
reciprocal ? ’ I answered ; but I thought he should not 
have made such a letter a matter for discussion ; it was 
evidently a letter from a lady, and not fi’om one of the 
ladies of the family, for I had seen their writing. 

‘ Reciprocal ! ’ he exclaimed. ‘ There is no one 
breathing whom I care for half so much ! Do you ad- 
mire my good taste ? ’ 

I hesitated. 

‘You think I had better not have shown it ? ’ 

‘ I think such letters ought not to be shown, unless 
their writers may be supposed to have no objection. 
I think this one must have been written in confidence.’ 

‘ Oh ! ’ he answered, holding out his hand for it ; ‘ I 
have others by the same writer which I religiously keep 
to myself. This is nothing; but they are enough to 
spoil any man. They have completely spoilt me. Well, 
Graham, will you come ? Here, Lou, suppose you read 
this aloud.’ 

He tossed the letter lightly on to the table, among 
his brothers and sisters. It was instantly snatched up ; 
and, while he decamped with Tom, he was followed by 
cries of ‘ O you cheat ! Giles — you horrid cheat 1 it’s a 
letter from papa, it’s his writing.’ The rest of the sheet 
was straightway unfolded and laid before me, and 
proved to be a loving letter from the old man to the 
young one, thanking him for having given up, to please 


284 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


him, some intended journeyings. It further related to 
a certain horse, by name Farmer, who had refused to 
cat his corn ; and to some railway shares, which were 
to be looked after. 

I felt that I had been ignominiously cheated, and 
wondered that the very circumstance of his showing it 
to me in the presence of his family had not made me 
sure it could be nothing of especial interest. 

But I had not much time to think. We all left the 
dining-room, and Liz and Lou took me up stairs to my 
room, where they began to inspect some of my gowns 
which Mrs. Brand had left lying on a sofa. 

It must be natural to girls to be sociable — at least, 
it must be natural to me. The delight I felt in talking 
cosily to Lizzy and Lou is indescribable. We did not 
say anything very wise, or very much the reverse ; but 
we speedily became confidential. They told me they 
had vainly speculated as to what sort of a girl I should 
prove to be. I confessed how shy I had felt at the no- 
tion of coming among so many strangers. These bygone 
feelings we laughed at, and had just agreed to address 
each other by our Christian names, when there was a 
violent knock at the door. 

‘ Who’s there ? ’ said Liz. 

The cracked voice responded. 

‘ Ah ! I said you were there. What are you doing 
boxed up with Miss Graham ? She’s not your visitor a 
bit more than mine. If you won’t come out soon, I 
shall come in.’ 

‘We are coming down almost directly.’ 

‘ Well, do. It’s a shame. Miss Graham?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ Don’t you feel very dull without me ? ’ 

‘Of course.’ 

Valentine withdrew. We meant to follow, but some 
fresh topic of discourse was started, and we stayed, 
perhaps, ten minutes longer. 

Another louder knock. 

‘ What do you want, you tiresome boy ? ’ said Lon 
now opening the door. 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


28o 


‘Why, Charlotte, and Dick, and Frank are here, 
and they have brought the blind pupil.’ 

So down we went, and found these young visitors — 
two fine youths about eighteen years of age, a very 
pretty girl, and a blind boy. 

I soon found that these were the daughter and pupils 
of the vicar. They were all energetic in their lamenta- 
tions over Valentine’s cough; for he, it seemed, when 
in health, was a pupil at the vicarage. He was openly 
assured by the pretty Charlotte that the whole house 
was in despair at his absence ; then one of the pupils 
administered further comfort by remarking that it never 
took more than a month to ‘polish ofi*’ the hooping- 
cough ; the other tucked the blind boy under his arm 
in a really kindly fashion, and they retired after receiv- 
ing a present of a little box of eggs from Valentine, 
which the blind boy touching lightly with his finger- 
tips, named, and, as it seemed, correctly. 

‘Old Tikey,’ Valentine afterwards observed, ‘was a 
hon-id coddle. Fellows must have the hooping-cough 
some time, and yet Old Tikey had actually sent him 
home on account of two boys who had not yet taken it. 
And isn’t that sneak, Prentice, delighted ? ’ he added. 

‘ Who is Prentice ? ’ I asked. 

‘ He’s a most odiously conceited fool — he’s an intol- 
erable young prig.’ 

‘ Come,’ said Liz, ‘ this is nothing but rank jealousy. 
Prentice is reading for Cambridge — he is Val’s rival, 
Dorothea.’ 

‘ He is only just nineteen — five months older than I 
am — and he is engaged to Charlotte. Only think of 
that!’ 

‘ Silly fellow ! ’ 

‘ Old Tikey doesn’t know. Do you think those feh 
lows who called just now look older than I?’ 

‘Older? No, younger. Much shorter, and more boy* 
ish altogether.’ 

‘ Ah ! they are small for their years ; but the oldest 
of those 1 as made an offer I There never was such a 
muff in this world ; we can make him do anything.’ 


286 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘It’s quite true, I assure you,’ said Lou, seeing ma 
look amazed. 

‘ But I suppose he made it of his own free will ? ’ I 
inquired. 

‘Nothing of the sort; we made him do it. It was 
just after Prentice had informed me of his engagement 
to Charlotte, and we were all bursting with rage at the 
airs he gave himself. And so, by a happy inspiration, I 
said to Grainger — that fellow whom you have just seeu 
— “ Well, Dick, I suppose your affair will be coming off 
soon?” And we actually made him believe (that we 
might make Prentice appear the more ridiculous, you 
know) — we made him believe that he had paid great 
attention to Old Tikey’s sister. She is fat, more than 
forty, and we made him believe that he had stolen her 
affections, and must take the consequence.’ 

‘ If I were you, I would keep these school-boy delin- 
quencies to myself,’ said Liz. 

‘Very well, then, talk and amuse Miss Graham your- 
self.’ 

A silence naturally followed, which I broke after a 
while by asking for the end of the anecdote. 

‘Oh!’ said Valentine, ‘two of the other fellows and 
I talked seriously to him. He is such a jolly muff. We 
said, “ Grainger, we could not have thought it of you ! ” 
And we actually worked him up to such a pitch that 
he vowed he would do it. But he was very miserable. 
He said it made him so low to think of a long engage- 
ment, and, besides, what would his mother say? We 
told him he ought to have thought of that before. We 
/nade a great deal of his always having carried her 

E rayer-book to church for her. We said, that perhaps 
e was not aware that this was considered the most 
pointed attention you could possibly pay to a woman 1 
Well, then we talked of honor, you know.” 

‘ What a shame ! ’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Valentine, ‘so it was; but then there 
was Prentice. We felt that we could not live in the 
same house with him, unless we could make him feel 
smalL We were strolling under a clump of trees, not 


OFF TEE SKELLIQ8. 


287 


far fi’om Old Tikey’s house ; and when we had worked 
at Grainger for some time, he suddenly darted off. And 
an old woman, who lives in a cottage close by, came 
out and talked to me about my cough, and said if 1 
took three hairs out of a drover’s dog’s tail, just as he 
was going to London after the drover, he would carry 
tlie cough away with him. “ And those simple rerne* 
dies^"* she observed, “ would often succeed when all the 
doctors were posed.” Well, we went on talking to her 
and wandering about; then we sat down on a bank, 
while I did a little coughing. It was the day before I 
was requested to go home to my disconsolate family. 
Then we saw Grainger coming. He ran very fast and 
looked very jolly. He flung himself down beside us, 
panting. “Well,” he cried out, “I’ve done it, and she 
won’t have me ; that’s one good thing ! But I’ll never 
make an offer again, I can tell you, whatever you may 
say.” “ Won’t have you ?” we all cried out, screaming 
with laughter. “ What ! have you gone and done it al- 
ready?” And he said he had. He had met her in tbe 
shrubbery, and had said, as we told him to say, that ne 
was afraid she was getting thin. She said, “Wiidt! 
Grainger ? ” And so then he continued, “ I said to her 
what you told me about my hand and heart, and all 
that; and she won’t have me — said she should not 
think of such a thing.” Well, we all shook hands with 
him. I’m a very moral fellow, so I talked to him. I 
said to him, “ Let this be a warning to you, never to 
trifle with the feelings of the tender sex again.” He 
said it should.’ 

‘ This is really true ? ’ I asked. 

‘ Quite true. When he heard of it, Prentice almost 
gnashed his teeth. We told it to him as if it was the 
most commonplace thing in the world that Grainger 
should have made an offer.’ 

‘ Isn’t this a queer boy ? ’ said Lou. 

‘ Then Prentice should not be such an ass!’ he burst out. 

‘Well, now we are going out for a walk, and Aunt 
Christie, too. I must go and find her,’ observed one of 
the girls. 


288 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


‘I shall accorapany you. Some other time I shall 
tell Miss Graham all about Charlotte, and how she and 
Prentice correspond. Prentice is such a fool that he 
even steals other peopleV jokes, and tells them all 
wrong. You know that the house of Daniel Mortimer, 
Esq., has one long wing?’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘Well, one day when we were making some expeii- 
ments here, Prentice went up to my room for a bottle 
of steel-filings, and Giles met him wandering about ; so 
he said, by way of a mild joke, “ Don’t you know that, 
like the albatross, he sleeps on the wing?” Well, Pren- 
tice actually was heard to tell that the next day thus, 
“ My friend Mortimer, I daresay you know that, like the 
albatross, he — he flies all night ! ” He had forgotten the 
point of it. But he came here to lunch with Charlotte 
soon after, and told St. George how Old Tikey had 
bought some Irish pigs that would not stop in the sty. 
One ran away, and jumped clean through a cottage- 
window. Mr. Tikey, in full chase, bolted in at the door 
and found the woman of the house boiling a dozen, at 
least, of pheasants’ eggs. “ Boiling pheasants’ eggs ! ” 
said Giles ; “ foolish woman. Why, they were poached 
already ! If I had such a pig as that,” he went on, “ I 
would soon cure him.” W ould you believe it ! Prentice 
looked earnestly at him, and answered, “ How ? ” ’ 

If Prentice had not been one of the chief arbiters of 
my fate — I may say the chief arbiter — I would not 
have recorded all this nonsense of Valentine’s. As it 
was, let me say, with due solemnity, that this was the 
first time Prentice rose on my horizon like a star. 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


289 


CHAPTER XIX. 

* Who would dote on thing so common 
As mere outward handsome woman?’ — Wither. 

W E ^et off for a walk, and I smelt the fres\ ^arth 
and the spring flowers. ‘ Oh ! do let me garden 
a little ! ’ I exclaimed, as we came to & border 
by which lay some gardening tools. 

‘To be sure, there is a rake and a trowel,’ sa?i Aunt 
Christie ; ‘ rake away, my dear.’ 

‘ No ; I must have the spade, it is so delight/ \l to set 
one’s foot on it, and feel the earth coming up.’ 

‘ Ah ! ’ exclaimed V aleiitine, ‘ and so you sha 4. 

* *• ‘Let spades be trumps,’ she said, and trumps they were.’ — Pope.’ 

‘ O Val ! how mean of you to begin in this way, when 
you know you promised ! ’ said Liz, sullenly. 

‘I said I would be sparing, just at first,’ retorted 
Valentine; ‘but, now. Miss Graham, don’t you think it 
is very mean of my family to repress my rising genius? 
Many would be proud of it.’ 

‘ What have they done ? ’ 

‘ Done ! I say, Lou, how long is this to go on ? She 
has dug up a lily-bulb.’ 

‘I will set it again; now I have dug enough.’ 

‘ Then we can proceed. Why, this is what they have 
done ; my vein lies in apt quotations, and they won’t 
let me exercise it.’ 

‘We didn’t like it every day, and all day long, said 
Liz. ‘Now, I’ll just lay the case before you, Dorothea; 
Emily knew that when she went away we should be 
terribly oppressed, and so she made a rule — ’ 

18 s 


290 


OFF THE S KELL TO 8 


‘That the moment I began, if they could call out the 
author’s name, and say, “Pax,” I was instantly to stop, 
if it was only at the second word ; but, if they could 
not, I might go on to the end ; and, then, if I could not 
give his name, I might be pinched, or pricked, or other- 
wise tormented.’ He said this with an indescribable air 
of boyish simplicity. 

Aunt Christie remarked that the rule sounded fair. 

‘Yes,’ he exclaimed; ‘but they never can call out 
“ Pax,” for they are not at all well read, so the rule comes 
to nothing, unless St. George is present, and he is so 
quick, that I can hardly ever get out a word ; in fact, 
he often calls out what I am going to say, and stops 
it; then of course I’m stumped. Now, what are you 
laughing at. Miss Graham ? ’ 

‘ Because “you are so extremely young, sir ’’(Dickens).* 

‘ I’m almost as old as you are,’ he replied. 

Was there ever such an opportunity given for a re- 
tort ! The old aunt, with her fine Doric accent, instantly 
exclaimed, “ I grant thee, for we are women when boys 
are but boys.” ’ 

He danced round her, shouting out various names, 
but not the right one; and she went on till she had 
drawled out her quotation: ‘Now, don’t move your 
arms and legs about so, laddie ; it’s quite true, as Miss 
Graham will tell you, and ye should not have begun it.’ 

‘Yes,’ I went on, “‘We grow upon the sunny side ot 
the wall” (Taylor).’ 

‘Ah!’ said Valentine, calming down, after his exer- 
cises, ‘ I’m not up in that old fellow. Who would have 
thought it? “ Thou art a caitiff and a lying knave, and 
thou hast stolen my dagger and my sword;” those are 
almost the only lines of his that I know ; but they’re 
sweetly appropriate.’ 

‘ Well, now we shall have a little peace, I hope,’ said 
Liz, ‘ as he is conquered with his own weapons.’ 

‘ Are you conquered ? ’ I inquired. ‘ I think you are 
only sigliing to yourself, “ Ah me ! what perils do envi- 
ron the boy that meddles wdth cold iron.” ’ 

‘ Boy, indeed ! ’ he exclaimed ; ‘' but, Pax, HudibraA, 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


291 


this is nothing but envy of* my superior parts. I will 
.ead you and Aunt Christie such a life. Even if you 
quench me, you will only be disappointed, as the wild 
Tartar is who, when he spies a man that’s handsome, 
valiant, wise, if he can kill him, thinks to inherit his wit, 
his wisdom, and his spirit ; or, as that famous school- 
man was, who swallowed his enemy’s knife, that it 
might be handy to whet his words and sharpen hi® 
tongue on.’ 

‘ How was he disappointed ? ’ 

‘ He found it cut short all his arguments.’ 

‘ And the Tartar ? ’ 

‘ Why, he was doubly disappointed, for when he had 
killed the other Tartar, there was nobody left to fight 
with, which was very dull, and he himself was as ugly 
and cowardly as ever.’ 

‘ And that’s a fine compliment, by implication, to us,’ 
said the old aunt. 

‘Yes,’ said Valentine, ‘and one chief merit of this 
quoting faculty is, that by means of it one can tell peo- 
ple such home truths.’ 

‘ W ell,’ said Aunt Christie, ‘ but it’s a very elaborate 
kind of wit, and I think 1 agree with Lizzy, that it’s 
not worth exercising.’ 

‘The fact is,’ said Valentine, ‘I am not doing myself 
justice. I feel so coy to-day ; you really must bring 
me forward. Wait a minute.’ 

He darted off to a little copse, and thrust his head 
into a bush. 

‘ The Cubit grows,’ said Aunt Christie ; ‘ he’s a stately 
young fellow.’ 

‘ I said so,’ exclaimed V alentine, coming up ; ‘ those 
precious little lesser-white-throats are building there 
again.’ 

‘ But you won’t be so mean as to steal the eggs,’ said 
Liz ; ‘ I am sure you have eggs enough.’ 

‘ Nay, nay,’ said Aunt Christie, unexpectedly taking 
Valentine’s part, ‘ye must not look for virtues that are 
contrary to all nature. I should as soon expect to meet 
with a ghost that could crack a nut, as a boy that could 
keep his hands off a nest of young Unties.’ 


292 


OFF TEE SKELL108. 


‘ That’s the second time I have been called a boy dur- 
ing the last live minutes.’ 

‘ Didn’t ye invite me, yourself, into your room last 
Christmas,’ exclaimed Aunt Christie, ‘and wasn’t it just 
choked with rubbish of every sort that boys delight in ? ’ 

‘ He has such a value for some of his rare eggs,’ says 
Lou, ‘ that he takes them about with him, packed in 
bran, wherever he goes.’ 

‘Well,’ answered Valentine, ‘I don’t see that they 
are a bit worse rubbish than many things that other 
people carry about.’ 

‘ Not a bit, Oubit, not a bit ; the amount of rubbish 
that some people are proud to carry is just amazing. It 
is a blessed thing, indeed, that none of us can take our 
rubbish to another world ; for, if we could (I speak it 
reverently), some of the “many mansions” would be 
little better than lumber-rooms.’ 

‘Why do you call him “ Oubit”?’ I inquired. 

‘ Mamma did,’ was the reply. 

‘ But what is an Oubit ? ’ 

‘ Nobody knows. St. George thinks it’s a hairy cat- 
erpillar ; but I say it must be a kind of newt.’ 

By this time we had reached a little wood, as full as 
it would hold of anemones, celandine, and wild daffodil. 
We gathered quantities of them, and I felt the joy of 
roving about where I would. This is a kind of bliss 
that no one can imagine who has not been sometime 
held captive at sea. It kept me under its influence till 
we had returned to the house and I had dressed for din- 
ner. Some neighbors had been invited to meet us. I 
told Liz and Lou that I had never been present at a 
dinner-party in my life. They said this was not a real 
dinner-party ; it was only having a few friends to din- 
ner, and that among them would be only one interest- 
ing person. This was a nephew of Mr. Mortimer’s, a 
banker in a neighboring town, who lived a little way 
out of it, and had been invited to meet Tom, because 
he was such a clever man, and because they wanted to 
•how him that they had clever friends themselves some- 
times. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


298 


Nun€ of the guests had made their appearance 
when I came into the drawing-room. Mrs. Henfrey 
and Vaientine were down there. I was asked how 
I liad liked my walk, and ’when I had answered, 
Mrs. Henfrey said, ‘And which way did Giles take 
Mr. Gi-aharn?’ 

‘ As if you could not guess, sister,’ exclaimed Valen- 
tine. 

The sister smiled, and I looked out at a window, and 
saw a wide stretch of beautiful country, for the draw- 
ing-room was up-stairs, and I thought Tom must have 
Ixien pleased, whichever way he had walked. 

‘ Of course,’ continued V alentine, ‘ he went down the 
Wigfield Road, that he might gaze on those chimneys 
and the endeared outline of that stable.’ 

‘ I thought she wasn’t at home,’ said Mrs. Henfrey. 

‘Mind,’ observed Valentine, ‘I don’t know that he 
vrent that way; I only feel sure of it. You ask him.’ 

‘ Oh ! you feel sure, do you ? I thought Miss Dorinda 
was not come home.’ 

‘No more she is; but has the place where she hangs 
out no charms for a constant mind ? ’ 

‘You are rude! Hangs out, indeed! I wonder what 
Miss Graham thinks of you ! Ah ! here is Giles ! 
Well, which way did you w^alk?’ 

‘ Down the Wigfield Road,’ replied Mr. Brandon. 

‘What attractions must a whole wig possess,’ said 
Valentine, aside to me, ‘when “beauty draws us with 
a single hair ” ? (Pope.)’ 

‘ Is she handsome ? ’ I asked, also aside. 

‘ She is.’ 

Strange to say, this revelation as to the state of 
Giles’s heart was a considerable relief to me. I am quite 
sure I was glad. I had always known, past the possi- 
bility of a doubt, that he felt no attraction towards me ; 
but I felt a kind of enthusiasm still about him, because 
he was philanthropical, and I thought he had high 
motives, so I cared for him. In a certain sense he was 
dear to me, and I did not wish to lose him — out of my 
woild — married or single ; but I had been teased about 


294 


OFF TEE SKELLIOb. 


nim, and, consequently, I had felt as if all the natural 
instinct of friendship towards him must be smothered. 
Now I knew that he had attractions elsewhere, and I 
felt calm security and ease flow into my heart at the 
thought of it. ‘Now,’ I thought, ‘this annoyance 
really is over.’ I have frequently thought so ; and yet 
it kept cropping up again. 

So I thought, as the visitors arrived. Talk flowed 
around me, and I joined now and then in it ; but soon 
sank again into a reverie, from which 1 only roused my- 
self when I saw Mr. Brandon standing before me, 
offering his arm, and slightly smiling at the sight of my 
deep abstraction. 

V alentine followed with Lou. ‘ I say. Miss Graham ! ' 
he exclaimed, as we began to descend. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘I’m so hungry — there’s an unutterable want and 
void — a gulf, a craving, and a sinking in, as when — ’ 

‘ Oh ! stop — at least, I mean. Pax (Taylor), what 
you have been about since you came home is very 
obvious.’ 

Mr. Brandon glanced at me with amused surprise. 

‘Obvious,’ replied Valentine; ‘of course it is. I 
would be loath to cast away my speech ; for besides that 
it is excellently — ’ 

Here he was stopped by the ‘ Pax.’ 

‘Now that is what I complain of,’ said his brother; 
‘if you will quote, what you say should not only be 
applicable, but droll in the application.’ 

‘You’re always stamping on me,’ said Valentine. 
Both he and Liz had a delightful little way of being 
sulky for an instant, and then forgetting it again. So, 
as he came out of the sulks and sat down beside me, I 
murmured to him: “‘O knight! thou lack’st a cup of 
canary; when did I see thee so put down!”’ but I felt 
on the whole that quoting was a tiresome trick, and I 
would not help him with it any more. 

W e passed rather a dull evening : the guests were 
familiar with the household without being intimate; 
every one present seemed used to every one else. But, 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


295 


as the evening advanced, I again had the pleasure of 
seeing Tom get into a most vehement argument. He 
and Mr. Brandon were on one side, and Mr. John Mor- 
timer on the other. The gold coinage of England, it 
appears, is pure, but the silver they called not real 
money, but tokens. I hardly understood enough to 
know which side triumphed, or why it mattered. But 
it was delightful to see Tom so full of fire. 

When all the guests were gone, Valentine withdrew, 
and as we still sat talking, he came in again with a hat 
in his hand, and, walking up to his brother, held it out 
to him, just as a beggar sometimes does in the street. 

St. George, pretending to misunderstand him, leaned 
over it as he sat, and looked down into the crown with 
an air of great interest. ‘ Well ! ’ he said. 

‘A poor boy out of work, sir! ’ said Valentine; ‘no 
friends to speak of; earned nothing all the winter; 
silver coinage of this wretched country so debased that 
it’s against my principles to spend it. Nothing but 
gold can do me any good, sir.’ 

‘ I never give gold to beggars.’ 

‘Well, hand out your purse, then, will you?’ said 
Valentine, ‘and I’ll promise only to take one.^ 

St. George actually did so. 

‘But you had much better say two,’ continued Valen- 
tine ; ‘ they would last much longer.’ 

‘No, I won’t,’ answered Giles, laughing; ‘they would 
not last a day longer.’ 

Valentine thereupon returned the purse, and, with 
the sovereign in his right hand, marched straight across 
the room to his father. ‘ Papa,’ he exclaimed, in a loud, 
plaintive voice, as of one deeply injured, ‘ will you speak 
to Giles?’ 

‘Will I what ? ’ exclaimed his father, who had been 
amusing himself by watching the transaction. 

‘Will you speak to Giles?’ repeated Valentine, in 
the same loud, plaintive tone. ‘ If this sort of thing is 
allowed to go on, and I can get money from him when- 
ever I like, it will perfectly ruin the independence of 
my character.’ (He showed the sovereign in his palm.) 


296 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


‘ Giles has no strength of mind whatever,’ he continued, 
shaking his head in a threatening manner. ‘You’d 
much better increase my allowance ; for if not, I’m ver} 
much afraid this system will continue.’ 

‘ Go to bed, sir ! go to bed ! ’ exclaimed his father. 
‘You are an impudent young dog, if ever there was 
one, and you know very well that you are not to sit up 
late while you have this cough upon you.’ 

Valentine retired with great docility, and the next 
morning when I woke I saw Mrs. Brand holding a great 
bunch of primroses and violets. She said she had 
picked them up on the mat outside my door. A little 
twisted note was stuck into the midst of them. I 
opened it, and it ran thus : — 

‘ When I awoke, I said to myself, “ Ale, Squeerey ? ” 
(Dickens) meaning primroses. The same agreeable 
party answered, with promptitude, “ Certainly, a glass- 
ful” (ditto). You should have had more, only I have 
been studying you can guess what. — His own, V. M.’ 

In due time I came down, and as I entered, heard 
Mr. Mortimer saying, ‘ Well, if he is not likely to be in 
time, we must have prayers without him.’ 

He was evidently Mr. Brandon : every one else was 
present. 

So we had prayers ; the venerable white head look- 
ing more reverend than ever as it bent over the book. 

We then proceeded to the dining-room to breakfast, 
and Mrs. Henfrey said, ‘I don’t quite understand this 
matter yet.’ 

‘Why, sister,’ said Valentine, ‘it is simple enough 
Giles was out, and saw this boy stuck in the boggy 
ditch; upon which, throwing himself into an attitude, 
he very naturally exclaimed, “Though thou art of a 
different Church, I will not leave thee in the lurch.” ’ 

‘I’ll venture to say he said nothing of the kind,’ said 
Mrs. Henfrey very tartly. ‘ It was the milk-boy, was it 
not ?’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘Well, his parents are not Dissenters. Stuff and 
nonsense ! They only go to meeting now and then.’ 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


297 


‘But he must have said something,’ argued Valentine. 
‘ He may have changed the word “ church ” to “ parish,” 
and added, “ I will not leave thee in the marish.” ’ 

‘It’s extraordinary, I am sure,’ said Mrs. Henfrey, 
with a slight groan, ‘ how the poets came to write so 
many lines, as if on purpose for him.’ 

‘Well, my boy,’ said Mr. Mortimer, ‘now suppose 
you give us a sensible account of the matter, without 
any more of this foolery.’ 

‘ I don’t know any more, papa, excepting that 1 met 
Giles marching home, covered with mud and clay up to 
his waistcoat-pockets.’ 

Just then the old thin footman came in, and was 
asked what he knew of the matter. His reply, given 
with a toast-rack in his hand, ran thus : — 

‘ Yes, sir, Mr. Brandon, sir, was going along just 
where the ditch is so wide and boggy, and he heard a 
boy a^hollering and a-hollering, and he found the milk- 
boy was stuck in the clay. He had tried to jump the 
ditch instead of going round by the plank. That was 
how it came to pass ; and the more he worked his legs 
about, the deeper he got, until the ditch was full of 
puddles of milk. And so, sir, Mr. Giles dragged the 
boy out, and he had just got him on the bank when I 
came up, for I had heard the hollering as I went nigh, 
with the rolls. Says Mr. Giles to me, “Just scrape the 
poor child, Sam ; here’s sixpence to pay for his milk. 
And let this be a lesson to you, youngster,” he says, 
“ never to jump over a bog when there is a plank near 
at hand.” So, then, sir’ (here the footman uttered a 
laugh of sudden delight) — ‘ so, then, sir, Mr. Gil^^a 
went back a few paces, and gave a little run to jump 
over in the very same place, but the bank, being soft 
and rotten, broke with him, and he slipped down back- 
wards, and — ’ 

‘ And tumbled in himself ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Mortimer, 
in high delight. ‘Ha, ha! Well, such things will 
happen now and then.’ 

‘Yes, sir, Mr. Brandon tumbled in backwards, and 
sat himself down in the very thickest of the bog, and 
la* 


298 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


splashed himself all over with milk and mud.’ Here the 
old man, unable to restrain his mirth, retreated hastily, 
and Mr. Brandon came in. 

‘Well, Giles, my boy,’ said his step-father, after the 
customary morning greeting, ‘ how did you get out of 
that bog ? Sam has told us all the rest.’ 

‘ Did he tell you how, in my adversity, he and that 
little ungrateful wretch stood on the bank perfectly 
convulsed with laughter, and how I was so excessively 
surprised when I found myself sitting in the bottom of 
the ditch, that I did not stir for a full half-minute, but 
sat staring at them with appealing mildness ? ’ 

They all laughed but Mrs. Henfrey ; and she, not in 
the least amused, inquired how he got out, after all. 

‘ Oh ! I floundered up, and Sam held his stick. That 
part of the business was soon managed.’ 

“‘Let this be a lesson to you, youngster,”’ said 
Valentine, with a kind of respectful gravity, “‘never 
to jump over a bog when there is a plank near at hand ” 
(Brandon).’ 

He took care to speak loud enough for his father to 
hear, and in the plaintive voice that he generally 
afiected when making a joke. 

‘ Come, come, sir,’ said the old man, secretly enjoying 
it, ‘ let me have no more of this. Giles is a great deal 
older than you are, sir.’ 

The elder brother said nothing, but he looked at 
Valentine with a significant smile, and proceeded to help 
himself to the viands and talk with Tom over their last 
night’s argument with John Mortimer. The English 
sovereign, it appears, is worth much the same all the 
world over, but the English shilling is alloyed, and this, 
it seems, is not done with any deliberate intention of 
cheating the English people, but from motives of policy. 
Now, Tom and Mr. Brandon had sagely remarked that 
BO long as anybody would give a sovereign for twenty 
shillings, it mattered nothing to the people that they 
were not really worth it ; but Mr. John Mortimer had 
maintained that it did matter ; it mattered very much 
to everybody, but especially to the poor. 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


299 


Tom declared his intention of going into the subject/, 
but this was not merely because Mr. John Mortimer had 
differed from them, but because he had talked of the 
whole of that wonderful invention, called money, as if 
a great part of the prosperity of nations depended on 
what their money was made of, and how much they 
were charged for the making of it. Moreover, in an 
evil hour for himself, he had declared that these things 
were so simple that he wondered how there could be 
any difference of opinion about them. 

This discussion being not of much interest to any of 
us but to me, and that only because it had roused Tom, 
we all retired to the little morning-room except Tom 
and Mr. Brandon, who had not finished his breakfast, 
and here Valentine brought a volume of ‘ Telemachus’ 
to his sister Lou, and sitting down by her, began to 
read aloud, with much mouthing and a particularly bad 
accent. 

‘You see. Miss Graham,’ said Mrs. Henfrey, casting 
a reproachful glance at him, ‘ this young gentleman 
makes no stranger of you.’ 

I said, truly enough, that I was glad of it, and she 
was quite right. We might have been staying there a 
year for any difference we made in any of their arrange- 
ments or any of their gentle, easy household ways. 

Valentine remarked that Giles had threatened not to 
take him to France that year unless he would improve 
his French, and he stumbled through a page or two, 
being continually corrected by Lou. 

‘It’s perfectly abominable!’ she exclaimed. ‘You 
will pronounce every e impartially, and how often do I 
tell you not to divide the words 1 ’ 

Valentine groaned: ‘What with your being so par- 
ticular, and this fellow being such a shocking muff, it is 
too much for my spirits. Now, then — “Mais dans 
votre bonheur souvenez vous du malheureux Narbal et 
ne cessez jamais de m’ aimer. Quand il cut achev(^ ces 
paroles je I’arrosai de mes larmes” (ugh!); “de pro* 
fonds soupirs m’empechaient de parler” (hang this fel- 
low, he’s always blubbering !) “ et nous embrassions en 


800 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


silence.” Miss Graham, did you ever read “ Telemachus * 
through ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ Does he find his papa ? ’ 

‘ I shall not tell you ; that might rob the story of its 
thrilling interest.’ 

‘Well, I can’t stand much more of this sobbing and 
crying. Homer himself is bad enough, and Pope makes 
him worse. They cry “ quarts : ” — 

‘“Tears his cheeks bedewed, 

Nor less the father poured a social flood, 

• They wept abundant and they wept aloud.’* 

Tom and Mr. Brandon now came in. 

‘Ah!’ said Aunt Christie, partly addressing them, 
‘ and these are the classics, ye see — these are what ye 
spend your young lives, all of you, in getting a smatter- 
ing of.’ 

‘But it must be done,’ answered Valentine, ‘and as 
this fellow waters all the strangers with his tears, I 
really am afraid he will pour out such a flood if he 
meets his father, that the consequences to that old 
buffer will be serious.’ 

‘ A mere smattering,’ repeated Aunt Christie, nodding 
at them; ‘and so, as they can’t bear to feel that all 
their time has been wasted, they pretend afterwards to 
think highly of the classics, though they know better. 
Why, what’s in this Homer that they make such a 
work about ? What’s Achilles but a sort of glorified 
navvy ? He kills his meat as well as his man ! Paris 
runs away at first (that I never could get over), and 
what’s it all for ? Why, two women, neither of whom 
is any better than she should be.’ 

‘You shall write another “Shorter Catechism,”’ 
said Mr. Brandon, ‘ and we shall all be bound to learn 
it.’ 

‘ First question,’ said Tom, blandly: ‘ 'Where is /Scot- 
land situated? Answer: At the top of England? 

‘Ay, indeed, and ye are very right, said the old 
^unt, laughing. 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


301 


‘Second question,’ added Mr. Brandon: ^What is a 
school ? Answer : A place where they teach hoys to he 
pagans every day^ and tell them to he Christians once a 
v^eekl 

He then walked up to the window, and saying what 
a beautiful morning it was, asked if we should like to 
have it open, and was just opening it, when I, having 
nothing to do, ran up-stairs for my work-box. In less 
than three minutes I came down again, and outside the 
door, which' was shut, stood Valentine panting on the 
mat. 

‘ It’s locked,” he said ; ‘ the door’s locked and you 
can’t get in.’ 

Locked?’ 

‘ Yes ; that villain Giles, how he comes to be so strong 
I can’t think. I was as quiet as possible, reading away 
at my French, and he came behind me, and in the 
twinkling of an eye, before I could speak, he folded me 
up, and I was outside the window sitting among the 
tulips and things. Look at my coat. I’m all covered 
with tulip-dust.’ 

‘ Dear me ! I wish I had seen it. Did he send you 
flying out, or 6nly lay you down like a parcel ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! how base some people are ! Giles, Giles, sir 
(he called through the keyhole), you’ve locked out Miss 
Graham.’ 

‘No, stop,’ I said, ‘as we are locked out, suppose we 
steal a march on them, and go for a walk this lovely 
morning.’ 

‘ You won’t do it?’ 

‘ I will, if you will.’ 

He expressed his delight in some strange fashion. I 
ran up-stairs, was soon equipped, and off we set, on one 
of the sweetest spring mornings that ever smiled itself 
away. 

The shadows of dark-green leaves are sweet and 
solemn, but the shadows of pink and white blossoms 
are the rarest and most delicate in all nature. Wo 
heard all about us the piping of blackbirds, and the 
near humming cf contented bees. We got into tha 


802 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


orchard and down to a little stream that bordered it, 
and when I saw the glittering water-buttercups, tho 
mosses, and all the trees so ghostly fair, I felt what an 
ecstasy there is in youth and spring. 

Then we got under a great pear-tree, smelt its blos- 
som, and looked up through it to the pale blue sky, and 
1 was so oppressed with haj)piness that I could hardly 
speak, and for a long time could not leave the enchanted 
spot ; the common world I felt would seem so plain and 
chill after it. 

But we did leave it, and I found the fir-wood beyond 
almost as beautiful; it abounded with the nests of 
thrushes and linnets, and round its edges we gathered 
violets ; then we came back to the orchard, sat down on 
a bench, and my heart kept repeating, ‘ How great is 
His goodness, and how great is His beauty!’ Then 
suddenly Valentine said : — 

‘ Do you think people are better or worse than they 
appear ? ’ 

‘ Do you mean people in general, or ourselves ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! well, I suppose I meant you and me.’ 

‘ I think just now we must be better than we appear 
— we must have some better thoughts than any words 
we have said.’ 

‘ But this is such a wonderful morning — so lovely 
that it makes one feel quite solemn.’ 

‘Yes, and everything so happy and so good.’ 

‘ Ah ! well, I wish I did not live with such extremely 
good people — such people, I mean, as my father, and 
Giles, and Miss Dorinda. When you see how they go 
on you will wish the same, unless you are a very excel- 
lent person yourself, and I don’t see that you are.’ 

‘ Oh I but I always thought it helped one on to be 
with such people.’ 

‘No, it doesn’t. They have found out all sorts of 
ways, both of doing good and being good; they go 
into motives, and they think they must govern their 
bad feelings. Well, I should never have found out 
such things if I had been let alone, therefore it 
would not have been my duty to practise them. 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


303 


Now they stare me in the face, and I often feel mis- 
erable for fear I ought to be different.’ 

‘ Oh ! you are quite a child in spite of your height,’ 
was my thought ; ‘ you have no reserve, even with a 
stranger.’ But I answered, ‘ Surely that is better than 
not thinking about it.’ 

‘ It is very disagreeable,’ he replied, ‘ to feel that on9 
gets worse as one gets older.’ 

‘ Disagreeable ! ’ I replied. ‘ How can you use a word 
so inadequate to express the feeling ? ’ 

‘Well, you know what I mean.’ 

‘Yes; but when we feel that, we know that we can 
have help to become better if we will ask for it.’ 

‘ Ah ! yes,’ he answered naively ; ‘ but then, you know, 
you would have to ask for it quite sincerely, and with- 
out any reservation. Do you think I look as if I was 
going to be a clergyman ? ’ 

‘Not in the least, as far as I can judge.’ 

‘ But I am ; at least if I can make up my mind to lU 
Mamma always wished it so much, and so does my 
father.’ 

‘ I do not see that your being so fond of fun is at all 
against it.’ 

‘No — so Giles says — and some fellows must be 
clergymen, you know. I’ve got to decide during the 
next few months, and if I really feel I ought not, Giles 
says he shall back me. Isn’t it odd, my talking in this 
way to you ? ’ 

‘Very odd; I was just thinking so.’ 

‘ 1 never do, excepting to him, and not to him if I can 
help it, because he takes advantage of me afterwards ; 
when I don’t work he reminds me of things we have 
talked about. I have no business to be out here now 
with you. I ought to be doing my Greek.’ 

‘ Bnng it here then, and we will do it together.’ 

‘ Ah ^ I want to hear you read Greek ; but will you 
promise to wait for me ? ’ 

I promised, and while he was gone sat under the pear- 
tree delighted with life and spring. 

Tramp, tramp, came a slow foot. I wished Valentine 


804 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


had not been so expeditious ; but I did not look round. 
Something was being read or said aloud, and I soon 
observed that it was by a far different voice from the 
cracked one I had been listening to that moining. 

The steady foot came on ; there was a narrow path 
before the bench, and I saw Mr. Brandon advancing, 
looking grave and abstracted. He was conning or read* 
ing a speech from some written notes in his hand, and 
was perfectly unconscious of my presence as I sat buried 
among the bending pear-boughs. 

I heard a sentence as he advanced. He did not look 
up, and would have passed, but that he had to push 
aside a branch, in doing which he glanced off his notes^ 
and beheld me within a yard of his face. 

He started up again with no little surprise, and sent 
the bough swinging in his haste, so that it scattered me 
and the grass with a shower of little flower pearls. 

‘ Miss Graham ! who would have thought it — and all 
alone ! ’ 

‘ All alone ; that is no misfortune. I am very happy.* 

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘ I see you are. Set in a white 
world of blossom, and lost in maiden meditation ; but 
why did you come here ? ’ 

‘ Because I was locked out of the morning-room.’ 

‘ A sufficient cause, and one that ought to make me 
ashamed of myself, but does not ; for, if I may judge 
by appearances, you are very much indebted to me.’ 

‘Yes, it is so long since I set my feet on the soft 
delightful sward, that I wish I might stay here all 
day.’ 

‘ You were led here by instinct?’ 

‘No, by Valentine; and he is now gone to fetch kii 
Greek books, to do some construing with me.’ 

‘ What a delightful camaraderie seems to be estab- 
lished already between you two ! ’ 

‘ Birds of a feather, you know.’ 

‘You are joking ; you cannot really feel any similarity 
and equality.’ 

Being touched here on a weak point, I replied that I 
fl?lt myself to be a grown-up woman while he was only 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


305 


a boy. ‘ But he is a very delightful boy,’ I went on, 
‘ for he likes me and likes to be with me.’ 

‘In my eyes he is a charming young fellow, a joyous, 
idle, frank, unreasonable young dog ; but is every one, 
even a boy, charming in your eyes if he likes you and 
likes to be with you ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know. I should think not. But this sudden 
friendliness I have not met with hitherto; it has the 
charm of novelty.’ 

‘ That charm,’ he said quietly, ‘ will most likely soon 
wear off.’ 

He stood before me pressing the moss with his foot, 
and with the faint shadows of the blossom flickering on 
his face. I think he was a little impatient to go on, 
but he could not very well leave me by myself any 
more than I could him. I liked just as well to be 
alone. 

‘ What a time that boy is ! ’ he presently said, look- 
ing along the path, and lo ! the expression of his face 
changed suddenly to one of considerable embarrassment, 
his open forehead flushed slightly, and he made a hasty 
movement as if he would have retreated, but checked 
himself. 

At the same instant I heard several voices, Mr. Mor- 
timer’s among them, and presently the flne white head 
emerged from the entanglement of blossoming boughs; 
then Liz and Louisa appeared, and lastly Valentine. 

Giles stood his ground. 

‘ Bless me,’ exclaimed Mr. Mortimer, ‘ how pleasant 
it is out here ! I thought you were getting up your 
lecture, Giles,’ and thereupon he sat down by me and 
cleared his throat loudly, and I thought significantly. 

‘ So I was,’ answered the step-son, ‘ and coming 
accidentally down here, I found Miss Graham sitting 
all alone.’ 

At that ill-advised but most true word, ‘ accidentally,’ 
both the sisters and Mr. Mortimer openly smiled. I 
was not at all put out of countenance ; ‘ the endeared 
outlines of those chimneys’ were present to my 
thoughts, if not to theirs. 

T 


306 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


‘Well,’ sjxid Valentine, excusing himself for havHg 
left me, ‘I am sure I have not been gone a quarter of 
an hour, and I should have been here before, only that 
I could not find my lexicon.’ 

‘ We must try to forgive you, my boy,’ said Mr. 
Mortimer, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘ and so must Giles. 
A quarter of an hour is not long, after all, for him to be 
kept from his lecture.’ 

Here, taking up the defence of the oppressed, I made 
a remark as to how I had been locked out, and this 
gradually drew on the whole story. 

‘ Locked him out ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Mortimer, with a 
puzzled air. 

‘Yes, papa,’ said Lou, ‘Giles put the Oubit out of 
the window for making game of him at breakfast time, 
and then locked the door to prevent his getting in 
again.’ 

‘And I brought Miss Graham here,’ said Valentine; 
‘ and we were so happy.’ 

‘ But when we unlocked the door,’ observed Liz, ‘ we 
found it bolted on the outside.’ 

‘Naturally you did,’ said Valentine. 

‘ And we did not like to ring,’ she continued ; ‘ we 
thought it would look so odd to the servant to find us 
bolted in, so we waited, hoping Dorothea would come 
to the outside.’ 

‘ Where is young Graham ? ’ asked Mr. Mortimer. 

‘ He is in my room,’ said St. George, ‘ hunting up 
something about the currency. We are going to dine 
with John Mortimer to-morrow, before the lecture.’ 

‘ Oh ! he will go with you to the lecture, will he ? ’ 
said Louisa. 

‘ Yes ; are you going ? ’ 

' We shall, if Dorothea would like to go.’ 

‘ There are to be some stunning illustrations, I can 
tell you,’ said Valentine, and Mr. Brandon withdrew. 

‘ You’ll see it reported in one of the county papers 
next Thursday,’ remarked Valentine. ‘ St. George will 
figure as our talented what’s-his-name. “We have to 
report another successful effort from the son of that 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


307 


Bpirited magistrate and consistent Fink, who, living not 
a hundred miles from Wigfield, in patriarchal comfort,” 
&G. Then at the end you will read how St. George 
held his audience enthralled, and surpassed himself iu 
lively eloquence and appropriate illustration : ‘‘We are 
happy to find that Mr. Brandon has . entirely recovered 
after his late battle with the turbulent waves of the 
Atlantic, and that his adherence to the Pmk cause in 
this borough is as stanch as ever.” ’ 

‘ Sir, you are impertinent,’ said his father, who had 
taken care not to speak till he had finished all he had 
to say. 

‘Yes, father,’ replied Valentine humbly, ‘I am sorry 
to say that is too often the case,’ and he shook his head 
and sighed. 

Mr. Mortimer looked at me with an air of amusement, 
that seemed to say. Isn’t he a funny young fellow ? and 
continued — ‘ Giles, sir, is an honor to us all ; I wonder 
you are not proud of your elder brother ! ’ 

‘ I am,’ answered Valentine; ‘ I think it must be my 
being puffed up with pride about my relations that 
makes me so insufferable.’ 

Mr. Mortimer now declared himself rested, and his 
two step-daughters bore him off, leaving Valentine and 
me to our task. 

So we began to read, and I soon found myself in the 
position of instructress ; his talent evidently was not 
for languages, and as a pupil I found him absolutely 
provoking ; he would not attend to his book ; he stopped 
so often to talk — to compliment — and in his horribly 
cracked voice to sing little snatches of songs, that at 
last we got into a decided dispute, for he was perfectly 
careless and indifferent, and I was very much in earnest. 
‘ Oh ! come,’ I exclaimed, as with a ridiculously broken 
voice he sang, ‘ If she be not kind to me, what care I 
how fair she be ! ’ ‘If you do not give your mind to 
wliat you are about, you will never come to any good. 

He stared at me with surprise. 

I was fluttering the leaves of his lexicon, vainly inves- 
tigating a point that he chose to consider settled, and 


308 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


the more I searched the more he sang, until at last, 
thoroughly roused and rather indignant, I gave him a 
good scolding, and asked him what he could be think- 
ing of to trifle away his time in that way? 

He turned his clear eyes upon me, ceased to sing, and 
gradually arrived at the conclusion that I really was 
giving him a lecture, that I meant what I said, and that I 
really did regard the reading, not as play, but as work. 
So he withdrew his idle hand from his waistcoat-pocket, 
took the book gravely from me, and went on construing 
(br full ten minutes with exemplary care and a kind of 
'\rgency and energy that surprised me. 

At the end of that time I heard footsteps, and saw a 
attle smile begin to tremble over the lips of my com- 
panion, but he did not pause until his brother came up 
md stopped before us ; then he clapped to the books, 
and exclaimed with a burst of laughter, ‘ She says 1 
ought to be ashamed of myself ! ’ 

‘ So you ought ! ’ I answered audaciously, but obliged 
to laugh too. 

‘ She says I am not in earnest about anything, and 
that I shall certainly go to the dogs if I don’t mend my 
ways ! ’ 

‘ I uttered no such words, but I said what implied as 
much ; and so I think.’ 

When I saw Mr. Brandon’s amused face I felt sud- 
denly ashamed of the warmth I had displayed, and 
the unguarded things I had said to my two days’ ac- 
quaintance. 

lie put aside the pear boughs, came close, and sat 
down on a tree stump at our feet, folding his arms and 
looking up at us. 

‘It appears that you and Miss Graham have been 
quarrelling ? ’ he remarked. 

‘Not at all!’ I replied; ‘but I was reading with 
your brother, and he would not give his attention to 
what he was about, so — ^ 

I liesitated. ‘ So you scolded him ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Valentine, ‘ she was in such a passion. She 
is quite flushed now, as you can see.’ 


OFF THE SKELLlCtS. 


809 


St. George glanced at my face. 

‘Well, Oubit,’ he said, ‘I hope you appreciate the 
compliment.’ 

‘ Compliment ! Do you think I like to be scolded ? ’ ' 

‘Don’t you like that a lady should take enough 
interest in you to be vexed when you behave like a 
child?’ 

‘ The compliment was of niy paying,’ said Valentine, 
with an easy smile. ‘ I was naturally occupied with her 
and not with the lexicon, and she got quite indignant 
— roused — her eyes flashed, and she said such things ! 
I declare she made my cheeks tingle. Miss Graham ! ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ I declare I thought for a moment you were going to 
cry.’ 

Oh! what an accusation of childishness, and I had 
meant to be so old in all my ways ! I looked up, and 
Mr. Brandon met my eyes with a sweet and tender 
smile, such as one bestows sometimes on a dear child, 
and I thought how hard it was that I could neither look 
like a grown-up woman nor behave like one. 

‘ I have often told you,’ he said to his brother, ‘ that 
your want of earnestness is ruinous — deplorable ! Now 
you have come in contact with an earnest nature, which 
cannot endure trifling where grave interests are con- 
cerned. See how you have shocked it I ’ 

‘Well, I shall work harder next time,’ said Valentine 
with easy good-nature. ‘ But it’s not my way to be 
excited about things. I naturally am careless, I suppose.’ 

‘ But you should strive against that defect, not state 
it complacently as a fact that you have nothing to do 
with.’ 

‘Well,’ he answered, ‘ if Miss Graham would take 
me in hand, perhaps I could catch a little energy from 
her. I declare I felt quite elevated when she fired up. 
I experienced a kind of noble rage against myself and 
everything. If she could put me into a fury and 
reproach me every day, I could do anything.’ 

‘ Probably Miss Graham has something better to do 
than to attend to youi* Greek.’ 


310 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


I was glad of this proposal, and said I should like 
very much to read with him if he really meant tc work, 
and would promise that there should be no more such 
ridiculous scenes as we had just enacted. 

‘ What ! you really will read with me ? ’ he exclaimed. 

‘ Yes, of course ; I scarcely ever have the least chanoe 
of being of use ; I cannot think of throwing this little 
one away. It is so very unsatisfactory to live entirely 
for one’s self.’ 

‘ There ! you got that notion out of a book. That is 
the first thing I have heard you say that did not sound 
natural and real. My dear lord, clear your mind of 
cant (the Great Samuel).’ 

His brother tried to snub him. 

‘ How do you know what is natural to a conscientious 
person ? That feeling, that notion, does come out of a 
book, but not the sort of book you mean.’ 

‘ 1 meant one of those books that Liz and Lou are so 
fond of crying over, where the people are so impossibly 
good and refined and conscientious, and yet so invaria- 
bly miserable.’ 

‘Well, I hate those books too,’ he answered, ‘cold, 
low-spirited things.’ 

Liz and Lou did not look as if their reading had 
depressed them, and I remarked that I thought so. 

‘You will change your mind when the next Mudie 
box comes ; won’t she, St. George ? ’ 

‘Yes, and people unconsciously imitate what they 
admire, particularly when set before them in the guise 
of a superb young heroine, with dark eyes and perfect 
features that seldom relax into a smile, stern duty being 
all that remains to her — love and hope and ease being 
tragically extinguished.’ 

‘ Or of a fair girl all feeling,’ said the Oubit, sighing ; 

‘ a creature so horribly conscientious that she nearly 
cries if a fellow does but read a line out of some heathen 
Greek without bending his whole soul to the task.’ 

‘ I am not expected to recognize any one that I know 
in the disguise of a girl all feeling I’ 

‘ I said a fair girl.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


Sll 


‘ And I am not fair and not all feeling. I was cross 
when you were so provoking, that was all.’ 

‘ You are not fair ? ’ 

‘ No, I am not, and I do not say that to provoke a 
denial. I do not care much about appearances — at 
least — ’ 

‘ That sentence began in a very promising manner,’ 
said Mr. Brandon ; ‘ but if you think you are not fair, 
how odd that you should not care ! ’ 

‘You think, then, that if you were a woman you 
sliould care ? ’ 

‘ I am sure of it.’ 

‘ Perhaps you are not thinking of what I meant.’ 

‘ I was thinking of that delicacy, that attractiveness 
and grace — in short, of that beauty which distinguishes 
your sex.’ 

‘ But I was only thinking of that beauty which dis- 
tinguishes one of my sex over others.’ 

‘ And I understand you to say that you do not care 
about it ? ’ 

‘ I do not think it would suit me at all. It would 
want taking care of, like any other gift of God ; I should 
have to change my whole manner and conduct on pur- 
pose to harmonize with it. Yes, I think I am glad it is 
not mine.’ 

‘Your present style and manner, then, would not suit 
a beautiful young woman ? ’ 

‘No, because it always shows that I am very desirous 
to please.’ 

•Ah!’ said Valentine, ‘and that you think, if you 
were beautiful, would turn poor fellows’ heads.’ 

‘You talk,’ said Mr. Brandon to me, ‘as if beauty 
was a fact and not an opinion.’ 

^ It does not much matter which it is, if almost all 
agree as to its absence or presence.’ 

‘Very true,’ he answered, and laughed as if a good 
deal amused. 

‘I say, St. George,’ said Valentine, ‘I believe when 
Mi^s Graham made that incautious speech, she only 
meant that she didn’t care what you and I thought of 
her face.’ 


812 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


There was a pause. 

‘She cannot deny it. I’ll give her while I count 
twelve to do it in.’ 

I looked up at the tall boy and then down at Miss 
Doiinda’s lover, and it seemed to me that there was no 
need to deny it. To have beauty and captivate Valen- 
tine would be very awkward, for I should not be cap- 
tivated in my turn ; to have it and be seen by Dorinda 
would perhaps make her tremble, and would certainly 
make her try to prevent my obtaining a friend. 

‘There!’ said Valentine, ‘the numbers are counted 
out ; ‘ She lives and makes no sign.’ 

‘ You need not think my indijOTerence is magnanimous, 
it is only natural.’ 

Valentine laughed. ‘ I know you consider me noth- 
ing but a boy, and I do not care, but really I think you 
are ten times better looking than many — indeed, than 
most girls — far better looking than Fanny Wilson or 
Jane, either.’ 

A bell had been tinkling for some time, and I asked 
what it was, upon which they both ’ose, and saying 
that it was the lunch-bell, proposed that we should 
return to the house. 


OFF THE SKELLIQB. 


S13 


CHAPTER XX. 

* A lame black beetle preaching like a fish ; 

A squinting planet in a gravy-dish ; 

Amorphous masses cooing to a monk ; 

Two fine old crusty problems, veiy drunk; 

A pert parabola flirting with the Don; 

And two Greek grammars, with their war-paint on.* 

V ALENTINE walked on before us, and set tJm 
boughs swinging as he passed. Mr. Brandon 
walked with me, and after a short silence, look- 
ing up, I saw that he was considering me with atten- 
tion. 

‘ I know you are not affected,^ he said. ‘ And so, 
he continued, after another pause, ‘ I feel sure that in 
talking of your face, as we have just been doing, you 
said what you really thought.’ 

He spoke in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, and 1 
replied, ‘ Exactly so.’ 

^ I flatter myself that I am discerning,’ he went on ; 
‘but if you venture to say such things before some 
others of my sex, you will certainly be misunderstood.’ 

I answered, ‘Your brother is not very discerning j 
yet he did not misunderstand, and he agrees with me 
evidently in opinion.’ 

‘ Yes,’ he answered, and laughed, ‘I really think he 
does.’ 

I wondered whether he meant to imply that he 
thought me pretty, but as I could not think of anything 
else to say, I asked, ‘ What is Fanny Wilson like ? ’ 

‘ Slie has all the beauty inseparable from a very large 
fortune. Looked at apart from that, I should say she 
was a heavy-footed girl. Jane Wilson is a fine creab 
ure ; she weighs about ten stone.’ 

14 


314 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


‘ A very proper weight, if she is tall. I rather envy 
her. If I were as heavy as that, I should never b« 
afraid to go on deck, even in a stiff gale.’ 

He laughed at the inconsistency of this speech with 
my professed indifference. So did I when he had 
pointed it out. 

‘ If you envy, you are ungrateful,’ he continued, aa 
dispassionately as if he had been speaking to his grand- 
mother. It was just the sort of manner I thought that 
a man should have who, while his heart was given to 
one woman, felt called upon to tell another what he 
thought of her face. ‘ But I quite agree with you,’ he 
continued, ‘ that beauty is of less consequence than 
some other advantages.’ 

‘ Oh ! then,’ I thought, ‘ Dorinda is a plain girl, and 
bo knows it.’ 

‘ But if it is ridiculous for an ugly woman to give 
bej’self the airs of conscious beauty,’ he went on, ‘ it is 
equally — almost equally — ’ At this word he paused, 
and seemed to consider, but not finding what he wanted, 
he presently attacked the subject in another place. ‘I 
think you are too much resolved to forget how very 
much people differ respecting beauty.’ 

‘ If I thought they were likely to differ in my case I 
should not talk as I have done, because it would appear 
as if I did it to elicit a flattering assurance of dissent.’ 

‘ That is exactly what I wanted you to say. It 
remains only to show that they do so differ — a remark- 
able thing certainly. But I am an instance of tlie 
difference I have suggested. My eyes justify me to 
myself, and in spite of all your convictions, I shall per- 
sist in my own, for if I had to point out one of the most 
attractive faces I ever saw — such is my perversity 
(such my bad taste that quiet smile seems to say) — 
that I should undoubtedly and confidently mention 
yours.’ 

He spoke so composedly and dispassionately, that 
for a moment I felt almost inclined to argue the point 
with him ; but no, that would be no use, and I felt that 
my intelligent theories on this point were upset. It 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


815 


was natural not to care for beauty if it was a mere 
circumstance in the possessor, but not if it was a 
cherished opinion in the beholder. I felt that the kind 
of attractiveness he had acknowledged was precious ; 
it was quite inconsistent with the least disapproval or 
even indifference. My world was so very contracted 
that few people could know or care for me, and this 
glimpse so unconsciously given of the place I must have 
held in his memory filled me with elation. 

‘ I have a friend,’ he presently said, ‘ whom I should 
BO much like you to see. I wonder what you would 
think of her face ? ’ 

‘ Do you consider her very beautiful, then ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! no,’ he replied. ‘ Oh ! certainly not, but I 
consider the expression of her countenance heavenly ! ’ 

‘ And do you think it the refiection of her mind ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ What is her name ? ’ 

‘ Miss Dorinda Braithwaite.’ 

The name 1 had expected to hear, but I was struck, 
as I had been before, with the formal manner in which 
the whole family spoke of this girl. 

We came in. 

‘ Dick is here,’ said Lou ; ‘ he is come to lunch.’ 

Dick, otherwise Richard a Court, was a small fair- 
haired young clergyman, who seemed to be on familiar 
tenns with the whole family, and Mrs. Henfrey, taking 
me and Tom into her confidence, let us understand 
that we were to make our lunch last as long as possible, 
because it would be Dick’s dinner, and she was afraid 
he did not always have a good dinner when at home in 
bis lodgings, because he gave away so much of liis 
income in charity. 

We were followed into the dining-room by a large 
awkward dog, who came slouching in with his head 
down, and an air of shame most evident and ridicu- 
lous. 

Nobody took any notice of him at first, and he stood 
at the end of the table by Mr. Brandon’s chair silent 
and shamefaced, but when the carving was over Aunt 


816 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


Christie exclaimed, ‘Why, there’s old Smokey, I de* 
dare ! ’ 

The dog took no notice of her, and his master, lean- 
ing towards him, said, in a tone of friendly remon- 
strance, ‘Now, Smokey, what do you mean by this 
ridiculous behavior? I am all right, old boy.’ 

The dog, putting his paws on the arm of the chair, 
grunted out a few inarticulate sounds that seemed full 
of love and entreaty, whereupon the master said, ‘You 
know as well as I do that you have no business here. 
Don’t I pay you a visit every day ? and don’t I always 
tell you that you are not to come and hunt me up in 
the house ? Answer me that.’ 

Smokey gave a yap, which was declared by the famN 
ly to be his way of testifying assent. 

‘ Oil ! he’s a wise beast,’ said Aunt Christie. ‘ I never 
saw the match of him.’ 

‘Well,’ continued his master, ‘ you can go to the mag- 
istrate, and ask if you may stop this once.’ 

Thereupon the great creature came tearing round the 
table, barking furiously. 

‘Smokey wants to know if he may stop,’ said St. 
George. 

‘Well,’ answered the old man, looking down into the 
creature’s eyes, ‘ if he’s a good dog, he may.’ 

Perfectly understanding the permission, Smokey came 
back with a much more confident air, and pushing up 
his head under his master’s arm contrived to impede 
the carving a good deal ; going round, if he was called, 
to the various members of the family, and receiving 
doles from them with sober contentment, and making 
various little yaps, snufiles, and whines when talked to, 
which they declared had distinct meanings. 

‘ They know we can talk,’ observed Liz, ‘ so they pick 
up our tones, and pretend to do it, too. It’s my belief 
that they think they do talk.’ 

‘ They live in the presence of their gods,’ said Tom ; 
‘ they ought to have one privilege more than we have, 
to make amends.’ 

‘ To make amends for the will of their Maker con- 


OFF TEE SKSLL108. 


317 


cerning them, you appear to mean,’ said Dick a Court, 
with a severe glance at Tom ; and he began with great 
sincerity, but in a wonderfully commonplace manner, 
to enlarge on the certainty that all the creatures are 
in their right places. 

‘ Dick,’ said St. George, when this had been going on 
for rather a long time, ‘ don’t be didactic, there’s a good 
fellow ; you forget that we men have completely taken 
our favorites among the creatures out of the places we 
found them in.’ 

‘ What does he say ? ’ asked Mr. Mortimer, who had 
caught a few words. 

St. George raised his voice a little, and replied, ‘ I was 
telling Dick he mustn’t be didactic ; you’re not used to 
that sort of thing, are you, my liege? — you can’t 
stand it.’ 

‘ No, Dick, no ; better not,’ said Mr. Mortimer, putting 
up his eye-glass and openly contemplating his step-son. 
‘ He’s quite right, Dick ; nobody’s ever didactic here.’ 

‘We could not have taken them out of their places 
unless it had been ordained,’ said Dick. 

‘ Then it was ordained, for we have done it ; and we 
have filled them with yearnings towards us, and wants, 
and loves, that otherwise they never could have 
known.’ 

‘And we have demoralized them too in some re- 
spects,’ said Tom ; ‘ their love for us renders them una- 
ble to be faithful to one another.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Mr. Mortimer, to whom this was repeated, 
‘ Smokey would tear his own mother to pieces if she 
growled at Valentine or Giles.’ 

‘ You think they are in much the same position that 
we should be,’ I asked, ‘ if angels lived visibly on earth 
among us, and chose out little human children here and 
there to take to their homes and feed with angels’ 
bread, and love and make much of? ’ 

‘Yes,’ said St. George; ‘and I am thankful we do 
not live with such a race.’ 

‘ What contempt we should feel for one another if wa 
did ’ rejnarked Tom. 


818 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


Little Dick actually gasped with’ horror at these two 
speeches. ‘ What can you be thinking of to talk thug 
of such a blessed possibility ? ’ he exclaimed. 

‘ I talk according to my lights,’ said Tom ; ‘ and as it 
18 not ordained that I should live with angels, surely 
I may say that I am glad.’ 

‘ Call them angels — call them whatever you like,’ 
said St. George, ‘ but if it is allowed that they are to 
be as much above us as we are above the dogs, I do 
not see how any higher religion than fealty to them 
could be possible to us.’ 

‘ Besides,’ continued Tom, ‘ such brutes as we have 
tamed are influenced not only by our acts, but by our 
intentions. We intend that they shall stay in certain 
fields ; we put a trumpery little paling round them, or a 
thin hedge, or a shallow ditch ; they are not consciously 
obedient, but our will was that they should stay there ; 
they generally yield to this thought that was in our 
hearts when we made the barrier, and it becomes, in 
consequence, insuperable to them. It would be the 
same with us if we lived with our betters.’ 

‘Now, Smokey,’ said the master, in a confidential 
tone to his slave, ‘ we are going out for a walk, Smokey ; 
we shall go through the yard. You had better look 
out.’ The dog retired with alacrity. ‘ I am not at all 
sure,’ he went on, ‘ that Smokey did not know we were 
talking of him and his people. I think he did, and felt 
sneaky in consequence.’ 

Tom answered by broaching another of his favorite 
notions. It was his belief, he said, that human spirits 
were perceptible to most other intelligences, though not 
to their fellows. ‘We appear to ourselves only to 
animate these bodies, but to the consciousness of other 
creatures we spiritually ovei'flow them. Just as the 
scents of flowers pervade their neighborhood, emana- 
tions from our spirits float in our neighborhood. That 
is another way in which dominion is secured to us.’ 

‘Then .what do you think our souls look like?’ asked 
Lou quite seriously. 

He hesitated. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


819 


‘I should iiot wonder if they give out a sort of light, 
she continued. ‘They might, you know, though it 
might be too faint for our mortal eyes to see it.’ 

Tom replied that he had not considered that part of 
the subject, and the party broke up. The men and 
dogs shortly went across country together, and Mr 
Mortimer took Lou and me for a walk through a pretty 
dingle, and then past the two cottages with green doors, 
finally to a deep, natural rent, which, in the Isle of 
Wight, would have been called a chine. In one part it 
contracted so much that a bridge was thrown across it; 
and looking down as we stood on this bridge, we saw 
Tom sitting below us, smoking, on a hurdle. Mr. Bran- 
don, coming along at a good pace, evidently measuring 
the length of the hollow by his stride, and Mr. a Court 
setting down the results in a natty little note-book. 

‘What are you about, my dear St. George?’ said Mr. 
Mortimer. 

St. George not hearing, Valentine, who had joined us, 
shouted down the message. ‘ Hi ! papa wants to know 
what you’re up to ! ’ 

Giles looked up and laughed, lifting his hat to us, and 
pointing out an old woman who was coming to meet us. 
He then went striding on under the bridge, and I saw 
why he had become a difterent person. Our fHend of 
the yacht always used to put his feet to the ground 
with peculiar caution, and liked to wear slippers when- 
ever he could. Even at Chartres he always stepped as 
lightly as possible, and with a caution which altered his 
gait. 

The old woman, who was very comfortably dressed, 
and was evidently in great indignation, came up to 
Mr. Mortimer, and in her country dialect demanded his 
assistance. It was just what Valentine had said in joke 
the night before : ‘ Do’ee speak to the young landlord,* 
she implored. 

Mr. Mortimer leaned down his grand white head and 
listened with all courtesy. ‘He was so masterful^ 
nobody could do anything with him.’ And she went 
grumbling on. ‘Times and times and times he had 


320 


OFF TEE SKELL108, 


chevied her pigs over the bridge ; ay, times and time^?> 
when they were feeding in the stubble, and she neve? 
said a word. So Iiad Master Valentine, as he very well 
knew.’ • 

I thought she spoke, and Mr. Mortimer listened to 
the account of these delinquencies, as if they might 
have taken place about the day before yesterday. 

‘ Boys will be boys ! ’ he remarked. 

‘ Ay, so they would ; but this was diflerent, and he 
was not to chevy her pigs while they were fatting in the 
sty. He and the young sailor gentleman had chevied 
them ever so, just to see where the drains went ; but it 
was flying in the face of Providence to clean up her 
pigs ; they wouldn’t fat unless they were dirty,’ 

‘ I’m sure I don’t know what is to be done,’ said Mr, 
Mortimer, ‘ as these cottages belong to him.’ 

‘And did he think, then, that he was to have the 
cleaning up of this mucky old world? The world was 
nat’rally dirty. She didn’t mean to say but what he 
was a good landlord, but full of fads, full of fads — 
would have it that her pigsties confected the little 
spring that the folks drank of further down, and actilly 
w'anted to turn the drainage the other way. Do’ee 
talk to him, sir.’ 

‘ It won’t be a bit of use,’ said Mr. Mortimer. ‘ But 
I know, if he does any damage to your pigSy he ^vill 
make it up to you,’ 

The old lady retired, gi'umbling as she went, 

Valentine did not let me forget our bargain that I 
was to read Greek wdth him. We set to work the very 
next day, directly after breakfast, and which of us it 
amused the most I hardly know, but certainly it 
amused all the other members of the family, for those 
who did not sit in the room came in and out and made 
frequent observations on us. 

Just as we had nearly finished, a little shower fell, 
and Tom and Mr. Brandon, who had intended to go 
out with us, came to condole ; for a walk was a delight- 
ful treat to me, one for which nothing else could com- 
pensate. 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


S21 


‘ I seem to contract a sort of sense of freshnesss from 
this fellow,’ observed Mr. Brandon of Tom ; ‘ I find the 
world looking newer than usual when I walk about 
with him.’ 

It was a lovely sunshiny shower that was coming 
down ; it seemed to fill the space between us and the 
tall trees, so ghostly white, with confusing light and 
sparkling lines. Tom and I sat and watched it. 

‘This is better than anything we saw this winter in 
the tropics,’ I remarked to him. 

‘1 wonder how you employed yourself all those 
months while you were at sea,’ said Mrs. Henfrey 
to me. 

‘You could not have been always looking at the sun 
sets,’ observed Valentine. 

‘ Particularly in the morning,’ Lou put in. 

‘No. Sometimes I wrote. I found writing a great 
resource. 

‘ Ah ! you wrote. To your friends ? ’ 

‘ I have no friends.’ 

‘Tow got no friends I Hurrah I You will 
think the more of us then,’ said Valentine. ‘Was it a 
novel that you wrote ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ With a motto to every chapter,’ said Tom. ‘ The 
ladies always take care of ihat. She wrote the mottoes 
first, and then put the chapter to suit them.’ 

‘ And the first motto,’ said St. George, ‘ was “ All the 
world’s a ship^ and all the men and boys are merely 
milorsV ’ 

‘But,’ proceeded Valentine, ‘the love-scenes were 
jcnost heart-rending.’ 

Here I was impelled to say, that I had not got so far 
as the love-scenes. 

‘ A} , but don’t be so shy about it,’ exclaimed Aunt 
Christie. ‘ I’m sure writing was a very pretty occupa- 
tion for ye. What was the hero like, my dear?’ 

‘ The hero was a temble trouble ; he wasn’t natural. 
I saved up a great many wise things for him to say, but 
I could not get him to be interesting.’ 

14* u 


822 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


* Then of course he was not anything like me, said 
Valentine. 

‘No, he was not in the least like you.’ 

‘ Wai-) he at all like me? ’ said Mr. Brandon ; and here 
I observed a certain keenness of interest in the listeners, 
who all seemed a good deal amused. 

‘ Oh ! no, not at all.’ 

‘ That’s odd,’ he answered ; ‘ only think of the inter- 
esting circumstances under which I came before you; 
but,’ he added gently, and as if the reflection pleased 
him, ‘ he must have been a prig, of course ? I know the 
hero was a prig.’ 

‘But he was very handsome,’ said Valentine. ‘1 
think he had brown eyes, and a fair complexion.’ 

‘Yes, he was rather fair; but,’ I continued, trying to 
justify myself, for I saw they were all laughing at me, 
‘ as I could not make him natural, I gave him as many 
other advantages as I could ; his defect was that he M^as 
too good, so I made him a clergyman. I used to like 
his remarks when I made him say them, but when I 
looked at them afterwards I thought he preached.’ 

‘And about what age was he ?’ asked Valentine. 

‘ About the age that heroes generally are.’ 

‘ That is to say, about my age ? ’ said Mr. Brandon, in 
a persuasive tone. ‘ I think I must be right in saying 
he was about my age ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! no, he was not nearly so old.’ 

‘ So old ! ’ he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence and 
interest. 

Surely, I thought, he does not consider himseif a 
young man now; and Valentine remarked, in a dis- 
passionate tone, ‘Why, you’re nearly thirty, Giles — *at 
least six years too old for a hero. An old man,’ he 
murmured, ‘ and his wits are not so — ’ 

‘ He isn’t,’ exclaimed Mrs. Henfrey indignantly ; ‘he’s 
just in the early prime of life.’ 

‘ 1 was never the right age for a handsome hero,’ he 
replied, half-laughing, but I saw plainly that he did not 
like our considering him old. ^ 

‘Well, that’s as people think,’ continued his chain- 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


323 


pion; ‘nobody can deny that he has the handsomest 
mouth and teeth in the family.' 

She looked round upon us as she said this. ‘ Or in 
the room, either,’ she concluded ; and, with a chorus of 
laughter, we all declared that we agreed with her. He 
replied that when he had his portrait painted for her, 
he would have the most made of his one good feature. 
‘ It shall be painted as large as possible,’ he assured her. 

‘ Well, I must say I would like to get a look at this 
novel,’ said Aunt Christie. 

‘ I have read part of it,’ observed Tom. ‘ She ex- 
pected me to set her right when she took a young 
family to sea. She asked me one day whether there 
was any difference between wearing and tacking. Her 
genius shines most brightly in seafaring matters. It 
always did.’ 

‘ But I’ve burnt the novel,’ I pleaded ; ‘ you know I 
burnt it, Tom.’ 

‘ And what for ? ’ said Mrs. Henffey. ‘ What does it 
signify whether there’s any difference between them or 
not? ’ 

‘I wanted it to be right; besides, the hero being 
quite in the grand style, I could not let him make mis- 
takes. And then there is so much variety in nature, 
and if you want to make a vivid picture, so many 
things have to be put in, I did not know what to 
choose. For instance, if I were writing of Tom, ought 
I, beside telling his height and appearance, to add that 
during this conversation he has been gently slapping 
the palm of his hand with an ivory paper-knife ? or that 
Mr. Brandon, sitting by Aunt Christie (who h&a a 
green-plaid gown on), has been leaning back on the 
couch and judiciously kicking the heavy tassel which 
hangs out from the comer of her square foot-stool, so as 
to keep it always going like a pendulum ? ’ 

‘ If I had been your hero,’ retorted the last-named of 
the two victims, ‘you would, in recording that little 
action, have taken care to add, “ but whatever he did, 
became him.” However,’ he added, in a tone of deep 
reflection, ‘ I think, on the whole, I am glad not to be 


824 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


the hero of a lady’s novel. Do you think you could 
draw my character, Miss Graham? Should I come out 
a gentle muff in your hands, I wonder? Or a prig 
with a dash of the dissenting minister ? ’ 

‘I intend to be the hero of your next novel,’ said 
Valentine; ‘I have quite made up my mind to that.’ 

‘No, not the next,^ said Tom, basely betraying me. 1 
was terribly tormented by them all when they found 
out that I had begun another, especially when, being 
hard pressed by questions, I was obliged to admit that 
I had stopped short because I could not think of any 
more scenes ; in fact, to collect more materials. 

‘ Ah ! I wish we bad Emily with us still,’ observed 
Aunt Christie, when they had quizzed me to their 
hearts’ content; ‘there were materials for anybody 
that could use them.’ 

‘Yes, she was always in mischief,’ said Valentine, 
bringing out his sister in a light that I had not ex- 
pected, ‘ and always getting me into scrapes.’ 

‘ She and Giles between them,’ said Mrs. Henfrey, in 
her usual dispassionate tone. 

‘ Do ye mind, Giles,’ said Aunt Christie, ‘ my seeing 
you and Emily helping the Cubit to write his exer- 
cises ? The h Courts have never forgiven you, I sup- 
pose ? ’ 

‘ Nor ever wilV ke answered, ‘ excepting Dick.’ 

‘ Ah ? said Aunt Chnstie, ‘ one on one side and one 
on the other of the dear innocent (as he was then). 
“ What are you all about ? ” I said, when I saw him 
with his little elbows squared on the table.’ 

‘Then old h Court should not have set me such 
foolish lessons,’ said Valentine; ‘how was such a little 
fellow to write compositions on Truth and Probity, and 
all that stuff? But he never would have found out that 
Giles and Emily did the answers unless they had put 
the last in verse.’ 

‘ Oh ! yes, he would,’ said Aunt Christie, ‘ for I remem- 
ber your telling your mother so prettily that he was 
very cross, and said the essay was all nonsense, and 
now you might write a composition on Nonsense, and 
see what you could make of that.’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIQS. 


825 


♦ And Emily told me to say it was a squinting planet 
in a gravy-dish,’ said Valentine, ‘and then Giles wrote 
the other lines.’ 

‘But I don’t see that this account of our delinquen- 
cies will be of any use to Miss Graham,’ said Mr. Bran- 
don ; ‘ these materials are not at all “ in the grand 
style.” ’ 

‘But if she does not hear the end,’ said Tom, ‘we 
may, perhaps, think it was worse than it was.’ 

‘ The end was that we wrote an essay, and a defini- 
tion to follow. Toward the end I put in this unlucky 
line, — 

“ Two fine old crusty problems, very drunk, 

and old k Court fancied these some allusion to himselt 
and his brother, which of course we had never dreamed 
of.’ 

‘ He got it all out of me,’ said V alentine, ‘ and came 
to my father absolutely sputtering and dancing with 
passion. “ How dare they say such things of me 1 
J3runk, indeed ! When was I ever known to disgrace 
my cloth? A pert parabola flirting with a don — 
scandalous! insufferable! I’ll never enter these doors 
again; I never wUl^ unless they most humbly apolo- 
gize.” ’ 

‘Yes,’ observed Mrs. Henfrey, with all composure, 
‘some of the lines were unlucky, but making them 
apply to him never entered thefr giddy heads. My 
fether was a good deal vexed,’ she added calmly. 

‘No wonder!’ exclaimed Mr. Brandon. ‘How he 
did lecture us, dear old man ! and trotted us both over 
to apologize. Emily spoke first, and repeated a little 
speech that he had composed for her; ana then I. We 
were old enough to have known better : I was nearly 
nineteen; she was sixteen. My youthful dignity was 
sorely hurt; I felt that life was hardly worth having 
under circumstances of such ignominy, but while I was 
blundering through my apology, feeling unutterably 
foolish, Emily suddenly burst into an ecstatic little 
eJiuckle^ and in spite of all my struggles I presently 


326 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


laughed too. After that the case was perfectly hopeless, 
and the families have been estranged ever since.’ 

‘And I was taken away from Mr. a Court, and sent 
to Old Tikey,’ observed Valentine, ‘for I was always 
too delicate to go to school. Giles and Emily have a 
great deal to answer for. I never got on so well as 
with him. What a comfort I might have been to my 
family but for them ! ’ 

I soon after got Valentine to give me these important 
lines, and have not ‘ let them die.’ The shower passing 
off, we went up to dress for a walk, but while (being 
ready first) I sat waiting in the morning-room for the 
others, Mr. Brandon entered, and walking up to the 
sofa, leaned over me gravely. ‘ jScene for the novel^ he 
said : ‘ “ And as she stood at the foot of the stairs, she 
looked up, and saw Amontillado about to descend. He 
was dressed for dinner in his usual swallow-tail coat, 
and had his clean pocket-handkerchief, slightly scented 
with eau de Cologne^ doubled up in his hand, but on 
this festive occasion he had added nothing to the 
adornments she always saw him in, excepting one small 
sprig of myrtle stuck in behind each ear. That sight 
made an indelible impression on her memory.” ’ 

‘ He was not in the least in thai style ! ’ I exclaimed. 
‘He was very manly, I assure you, and exceedingly 
strong.’ 

‘ Oh ! another scene for the novel — ‘ When he heard 
these trenchant word#, he sprang into the air as if he 
had been shot; then, tearing up a young tree in his 
desperation, he flung it into the river, vaulted on it 
instantly as on a steed, and waving his hand while he 
curbed the fiery exogen, he bade her farewell, and rode 
swiftly down the raging torrent until she lost sight of 
him. Then, as she turned away, she said, ‘ I wish I 
hadn’t done it.’ ” Do you like these scenes ? ’ he con- 
tinued. ‘ I’ve just composed them.’ 

If I bad had the sense to keep these scenes to myself 
tl ^re would have been an end of them, but I could not 
h Ip telling them to Valentine, and the consequence 
frequent other scenes more or less ridiculous. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


327 


Some time during that afternoon I asked what the 
lecture was to he about, and was told it was an account 
of one of the New Zealand settlements, and its object, 
of course, was to recommend emigration. 

Liz and Lou had made some gigantic pictures of the 
trees, scenery, produce, native huts, &c. Their brother 
had been over twice already, they said, and had been 
coming home the second time across America when we 
fell in with him. 

He and Tom came in wliile we were all looking at 
the illustrations. I held a picture of a wild raging 
torrent, which a man on horseback was fording. 

‘ That is your humble servant,’ he said. ‘ These two 
pictures ought to be labelled ‘‘Contentment” and 
“Terror.” “Contentment” represents a man with a 
long pipe in his mouth, roasting some animal at the end 
of a stick.’ 

‘Were you frightened, then, when you crossed the 
torrent ? ’ 

‘ Frightened ! I quaked in my shoes ! My horse got 
snagged and uttered a groan, poor beast, that often 
rings in my ears yet. I was ducked once, but rose 
close to the murderous snag, and sat and held by it for 
a couple of hours. Those torrents come by suddenly. 
When this one had spent its force, and I ventured 
down fi*om my perch, the water was so full of pebbles 
that, by the time I had struggled to the bank, I was 
beaten black and blue.’ 

‘ Shall you tell that anecdote at the lecture ? ’ 

‘ Why not ? I consider it rather a taking one.’ 

‘I should have thought it was enough to prevent 
anybody from going. Did you visit the country, 
intending to settle?’ 

‘No; 1 went in the service of one Jenny Wilkes, as 
her purveyor of stores, guardian, paymaster, autocrat, 
and likewise slave.’ 

‘A remarkable place. Did you prove equal to its 
duties ? ’ 

‘ It is not for me to boast ; but I should confidently 
expect a good character if I applied to Jenny,’ 


828 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


‘ As autocrat, I can fancy you might play your part 
well, but as slave — ’ 

‘Might you be looking out for the latter article, 
madam ? My late mistress will speak well of me.’ 

‘No,’ I answered, laughing; ‘I only asked from 
curiosity.’ 

‘You’ll please to understand,’ said Mrs. Henfrey, 
‘that my lord was only three and twenty when he 
took out a lot of women and girls, and he would have 
it that there was nothing odd in it at all.’ 

‘ No ! ’ exclaimed Tom. 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘it does strike me as rather 
droll now, but I did it.’ 

‘ As their slave ? ’ 

‘Yes; and I make a capital slave when I am treated 
with due deference. I can nurse children, snare and 
shoot and cook game, milk cows, and otherwise com- 
port myself like a gentleman and a man of title. My 
title, bestowed on me by Jenny and her set, was almost 
exactly like that of the Emperor of Russia. He is 
called Czar; I was called Zur. There’s no difference 
worth mentioning.’ 

‘ I wonder who Jenny Wilkes was?’ 

‘ She was a washerwoman.’ 

‘ A washerwoman ? ’ 

‘ Yes, indeed.’ 

‘ And may I inquire on behalf of this assembly,’ said 
Tom, ‘by virtue of what charm she made you her 
slave ? ’ 

‘You certainly may. Her charms were her eleven 
comely children — seven fine girls and four chubby 
urchins of boys.’ 

‘ More evidence is required to make the case intelli^- 
ble.’ 

‘ Know, then, that, to use her own language, Jenny 
washed and clear-starched for this family; but Jenny 
had a drunken husband, who used to pawn the clothes 
for drink ; and this happened so often that our patron- 
age was withdrawn. That was eight years ago, and 
then the husband for a time was more sober, and 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


329 


worked at his trade of gardening; but he was a bad 
fellow, and sometimes left her for months together, and 
she got on as well as she could, which was very badly. 
At last the man died. After he was buried I went to 
see Jenny. She was, as the neighbors say, “taking on” 
sadly. I thought she was crying for her husband ; so I 
told her that for her children’s sake she must bear up. 
“ Oh ! bless you, Zur ! ” she cried, sobbing afresh, “ It’s 
not that. But whatever am I to do? for now my 
neighbor has got the washing at the hall, and I can’t 
have it back, and I’ve nothing to put in their mouths 
nor on their backs.” So when I heard that I took a 
chair and sat down, and I remarked upon her good- 
looking daughters fast growing up — the eldest eighteen. 
I talked of husbands for them; work for herself; good 
pay. In short, I enlarged upon all that I had ever said, 
but with little success hitherto. To my surprise the 
widow started a new objection. She Was sure she 
should get lost ; she never could find the way. Like- 
wise, she remarked, that, in going through these forests 
she should lose some of the children. In vain I rea- 
soned with her, told her that there was no way for her 
to find, no forest to traverse. She recurred to the fear 
lest she should be lost. At last I said, “ Jenny, do you 
8U])pose I am able to find the way ? ” 

‘ “ Oh ! ay, she thought as how I could ; she was sure 
on’t, and if I was going she would be none afraid.” 

‘ “ V ery well,” I said, “ then I am going.” It had 
only just occurred to me, that I was about to spend two 
years in touring and travelling, and why not in that 
direction as well as any other? So the bargain was 
struck. I was paymaster of course, but I was willing 
to pay for success ; but the worst of it was, that no 
sooner was the thing known than two more women 
came trudging up to the house, “ had heard as how that 
I was agoing to take out Widow Wilkes, and their 
masters was willing, and they had but five children 
apiece ; would I take out all of them ? ” I did take 
them all. That is, I took a passage for them, and a 
passage for myself in the afler-part of the same vessel 


830 


OFF TEE SKELLI08, 


How the women and girls quarrelled! I shall nevei 
forget it. I was governor and umpire. They were all 
ill at first, happily, and nothing worse befell than the 
continuous squalling of the children. When the sea- 
sickness was over I set up a school, taught writing, 
arithmetic, morals, manners, and geography; gave 
lessons in chess, draughts, and dominoes, and kept the 
peace as well as I could. I had paid dear for my suc- 
cess ; I had persuaded somebody to emigrate, and I 
was taking the consequences. Well, we landed in 
Wellington Harbor. I had engaged to remain three 
months, and then, if they wished it, to take them back 
again. The two men got into capital situations very 
soon, and went with their employers a few miles up the 
country. I had no more trouble with them. But 
Jenny Wilkes and her daughters caused me a world of 
misery, and sometimes made me feel heartily ashamed 
of my ridiculous position as their guardian. Jenny 
donned a red bonnet, and gave herself the airs of a 
young girl. The daughters put on their best frocks, 
and marched about at my heels, for if I was obliged to 
leave the den of an inn where we were, I was sure to 
find some ruffianly-looking gold-diggers come over from 
Nelson, trying to make themselves agreeable, so I had 
to take the girls with me, and if I had been the wicked- 
est young fellow in the world, I could not have felt 
more ashamed of myself than I did the first few days 
after we lauded. 

‘I then found a respectable place to lodge them in, 
something between a store and an eating-house. I 
looked out for situations for the girls, but as lovers 
began to present themselves, they were not easy to 
please, and I soon found that my troubles would not be 
over until I had married the two elders. The mother’s 
head was turned, and she seemed incapable of looking 
after the young fry ; so one evening I called her outside 
the house to lecture her. “Mrs. Wilkes,” I began — 
“Mrs. Muggins, if you’ve no objection, sir,” she replied, 
and to my astonishment I found she had married the 
host, a fat fellow, making money fast, and sorely in 
want of somebody to manage him. 


OFF THE SKELLIOii. 


831 


‘ TT(3 came out after her, looking liot and flurried, 
“Marry you, Jenny? What, with all your children!” 
I exclaimed. 

‘ said Mr. Muggins, with his hands in his 

pockets, “ I’ve stepped into it ; some men air lucky ; 
my first wife was a fortune, to me ; but she was nothing 
to this ” — 

‘Jenny retreated precipitately, and gave her youngest 
Bon a cuff, perhaps caused by embarrassment. 

‘ Mr. Muggins looked on admiringly. 

‘ “ Four fine boys,” said he. “ I’ve been going to buy 
land and go up the country; but I haven’t managed it. 
Four fine boys to help I yers. I’ll go and do it now. 
My first wife, sir, was nothing to this ; why, a duchess 
is nothing to her.” 

‘ “ Mr. Muggins,” said I, following his lead, “ you’ve 
stepped into a good thing ; prove yourself worthy of it.” 

‘ “ And the girls, sir,” proceeded Mr. Muggins. “ Oh 
my gracious ! they’ll help their mother right and left, 
in-doors and out.” 

‘ Well, Mr. Muggins did buy land. Whatever faults 
his step-daughters may have had, they did not want for 
activity, and he soon found he had only to provide money, 
and he was taken in hand, washed for, cooked for, clear- 
starched for, his bargains made, his cart driven, his cows 
bought and milked. I saw him two days before I 
embarked for Sidney. “If it wasn’t that Mary Jane 
and Melia are going to marry,” said he, “ I should think 
myself in paradise ; but their mother, sir, she’s here, 
there, and everywhere ; and them blessed boys, they run 
of all her errands, and they chop wood, and they feed 
the poultry. Oh, my gracious goodness ! good bye, sir, 
and God bless you.’” 

We dined at five that day, that there might be time 
to drive to the town afterwards and hear the lecture. 
Mr. Brandon and Tom went to dine with Mr. John 
Mortimer, as well as Valentine ; and Lou, Lizzy, and I 
went over after dinner in the carriage. I must say I 
felt a strong degree of curiosity and interest, and when 
we stopped at a door in a dirty-lookiug back street, 


832 


OFF TEE SEELLIQS. 


and saw a good many working men hanging about, ( 
exulted quite as much as Liz and Lou did in the pros- 
pect of a crowded audience. 

W e entered a somewhat dirty school-room ; it was 
large, bare, and very empty. Our spirits fell. ‘Dear 
me, I wish the people would come pouring in,’ said one. 
‘ Where shall we sit, so as to make the greatest show ? ^ 
asked the other. ‘ Spread your gown out, Dorothea, 
and cover as much of the bench as you can.’ 

The benches near us were perfectly empty. As we 
had driven along, the girls had told me thajb the last 
time Giles had lectured there he had been hissed. I 
felt indignant ; how dared they do it ! But I only said, 
‘ Indeed, and Avhy ? ’ 

They thought it was because Giles was so uncompro- 
mising, so fearless in speaking his mind. I asked 
whether Mr. Mortimer would be present. 

‘ Oh, no ! ’ said Liz. ‘ Papa says he dare not, lest 
they should hiss again ; he took it very much to heart. 
Oh ! here come two women and a boy. Lou, dear, the 
gallery is beginning to fill. There are seven children 
in it. And see, here come some of the navvies.’ 

‘ But why did they hiss ? ’ 

‘ Papa thinks the farmers close to our village hate 
Giles, because some of their laborers have emigrated 
through his means. More people, Lou; we shall do 
now.’ 

We now sat silent, for the room was rapidly filling. 
Laborers stalked in, pulled off their hats, and stroked 
down their hair, settled themselves with a hand on each 
knee, and grinned. Fat old women disposed them- 
selves in knots in the cosiest corners, and scolded boys 
and girls as they went up into the gallery, which was 
not an ordinary flight of steps such as in most schools 
goes by that name, but a real one like the gallery of a 
church, and evidently favored by the youthful ]>ortion 
of the audience as a good place for seeing in, and being 
in some degree out of the way of interference from 
their elders. 

At last the room was full. A brace of fair-haired 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


833 


young curates stood leaning in the doorway, and a 
stern-looking schoolmaster, with a long white wand, 
marched about below and looked up into the gallery in 
which, by this time, at least a hundred children were 
seated. ‘There’s Dick a Court,’ said Lou. 

Mr. Brandon now appeared with the vicar of the 
town. They mounted a little platform, on which stood 
a reading-desk covered with a cloth, and surmounted 
by the usual supply of cold water and tumblers. The 
vicar proceeded to make a little speech laudatory of the 
lecturer. This speech abounded in such words as 
‘thrilling;’ it also enlarged on the condescension of 
the lecturer in taking the trouble to amuse and instruct 
the classes below him. Under the infliction of the 
vicar’s praise, the lecturer tossed back his hair by a 
quick, impatient movement of the head, his nostrils 
widened, and, if I am not mistaken, he uttered some- 
thing like a defiant snort. The vulgarity and bad taste 
of the speech were gall and wormwood to him, but he 
stood manfully until it was over, and as the vicar 
descended and edged his way out of the room, he came 
a step or two forward, cleared his lowering brow, and 
gave the audience a gracious smile which seemed to 
claim acquaintance with them; and then, instead of 
beginning to read his lecture, his eyes pierced the 
gloomy depths of the gallery, and to the surprise of the 
assembly, he said : ‘ Stand up, boys in the gallery, and 
girls too.’ With an obedient scraping and rustling, all 
the children rose. 

‘My boys,’ said Giles, ‘last week when I heard a 
lecture here, you made a great noise ; a very great noise 
and cheering. Now, I know it is a pleasure to you to 
do it; in short, that is what you come for, if I am not 
mistaken ’ (the faces of the fathers and mothers below 
broke out into broad smiles), ‘and I don’t want to 
deprive you of it altogether — merely to desire that 
you will never begin it. If your elders choose to 
applaud, you may help, but when they are silent, you 
must not make a noise. Sit down.’ 

Down they all sat, but in the very act they caught f 


834 


OFF THE SKELeIOS. 


low pattin^^ of feet and soft clapping of hands, which I 
believe the two curates began, and which ran through 
the room directly. Up started the children. Here 
was the desired signal. They stamped, cheered, and 
made a downright hubbub, while the audience laughed 
and enjoyed the joke. Again and again the running 
6rc of claps broke out below, and the exulting voices 
of the children echoed it, while the lecturer, who began 
to look rather out of countenance, stood waiting for 
permission to oegin. At last, the two curates, con- 
tented with their work, took up their hats, gave Giles a 
cheerful nod, and with innocent countenances blandly 
departed after their vicar. 

There was nothing particular, I think, in the opening 
of the lecture ; and if there had been, I should not have 
noticed it, for my ears had other work than listening to 
mere words, however significant. Just as the people 
were settling themselves in their seats, and the first 
sentence was uttered, I had heard behind Lou a very 
low, soft hiss, a sound that I should hardly have been 
conscious of if Lou had not started and looked hur- 
riedly round. 

At first Giles was decidedly nervous; perhaps he, 
too, had heard this soft hiss. However that might be, 
he betrayed by his countenance that he was not con- 
tent, not excited, and consequently not able to excite 
his audience and fix their attention on himself. 

I was beginning to feel disappointed, and was at the 
game time angry with myself for fearing that it was 
gtupid and dull, when, having waded through his exor- 
dium, he began to warm with his subject ; his voice 
changed, softened, grew deeper and richer, his counte- 
nance and all his attitudes altered, his words came 
faster, and his audience began to lift up their faces and 
cease to cough and fidget. 

My eyes, like theirs, were drawn to gaze at him, and 
forget everything else. He had raised himself into a 
higher place than he was wont to occupy; his voice 
was wanted to calm the agitation that he had caused 
and to answer the questions that he was asking. There 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


835 


was a sort of passion in all his actions, and as I listened, 
I felt for the first time the full meaning of the expres- 
sion, ‘ His eloquence carried him away.’ The world, as 
he went on, seemed to lie before us, great and fair as 
God has made it, and as if we were looking on while it 
rolled majestically in its pathway, showing all its hills 
and valleys to its Maker by turns. Voices seemed to 
be floating up from it to His throne, — not only the 
base, ungratefiil cries of wounded pride and disap- 

E ointed ambition, and wearied idleness and jaded vice, 
ut the sighs of the overtasked, the moaning of hungry 
children, and the complaints of fathers and mothers 
who see them pjne for want of food and warmth. To 
the picture of this great crowd and the gasping of those 
who are trampled down, he contrived to give such 
reality that the listeners were oppressed, as if they 
themselves wanted breathing-room, and had been 
thrown down among these restless throngs. As for 
me, I felt helpless among the jostling multitudes, and 
derived a vivid sense of the worthlessness of the items 
in one another’s eyes where the aggregate is so vast, 
and the small count set by the poor and the unready, 
and the grinding of the poor by the rich, and the 
snatching of the poor from one another, and the piled- 
up houses and unrefreshing air and smoky sky. I 
wished to get away, and all at once we were away. 
He exclaimed, ‘We have done with this now; let us 
go ! ’ I think I see the vessel still ; her great swooping 
white sails, hovering over the fresh sea, like wings that 
God taught man to make, that he might flee away and 
be at rest. We were away in some great silence. 

And now the vessel had left us. We were sitting 
on some towering hill, and this was the fresh world 
lying at our feet, stretching out into great valleys 
where solitary creatures feed, wading knee-deep in 
grass, and wide open pastures, where nothing moves 
but the shadows of the clouds and mountains veined 
with ore, and forests where nations of birds build, and 
where the trees rock in the windy sky and shed theii 
fruits which there are few to gather. 


836 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


Stepping away along those open wastes, one of that 
company might penetrate at last to some sheltered 
nook and hear the sound of the ringing axe with joy; 
he would not listen unheeded, the solitary workers 
want him. Come and help us, man, is all their cry ; 
you may not be wise, but you are company for us ; you 
may not be strong, but you are willing. Come and 
help us, woman; be a wife herei, and choose among 
urgent suitors ; be a mother, and see all your children 
welcome and cherished as the best gifts of a bountiful 
Providence. What! as they sit hard at work in the 
old country do they sigh when they set foot on the 
cradle-rockers, and fear that even to its own father 
the crying babe is a burden that he knows not how to 
bear ? Cast in your lot with us, and no such fear shall 
ever clutch at your heart ; the father shall exult in 
every child you bring him as the means of riches and 
comfort, a new workman, a fresh companion, another 
helper. 

Of course, I only give the impression he conveyed, 
not the words ; the power of these, and of the dilated 
eyes and impassioned voice, I remember well ; but they 
are not to be conveyed in language. When his pictures 
were all finished and held up before the audience, his 
arms dropped at his side, and all the vehemence with 
which he had spoken seemed to depart from him. His 
eyes were seeking the upturned faces of the audience, 
and after a long pause he went on slowly, dropping the 
manner by which he had gained the mastery, and tak- 
ing to a quiet tone. ‘ “ Sufier me a little, and I will 
show you that I have yet to speak on God’s behalf.” 
If men crowd their fellows, God has made for the 
oppressed a fair green wilderness. If men care not for 
the poor, God has cared, and spread a wide inheritance 
for them, watered it for them when they knew not of 
it, and made it ready. If’ — no more words reached 
me, for close at my back came the sound I had dreaded 
— a long hiss, clear, though low. It seemed to elec- 
trify Giles ; he stopped instantly, but only for a 
moment, and with face turned in that direction, and 


OFF THE 8KELL1GS. 


337 


attentive ears, plodded through the remainder of hia 
aentence, and allowed it to come to an end with a long 
pause which seemed to invite a repetition of the hiss. 
It did not come, and he began another, under cover of 
which the hiss was rej)eated, and a faint murmur of 
shame came from the unlighted corners of the room. 

I was too much frightened to look round, and Liz 
and Lou shook visibly on their bench. For an instant 
there was a dead silence. Giles was searching the bench 
behind us with his penetrating eyes, and I saw that he 
had found what he wanted ; for, his countenance cleared, 
he kept them fixed on some one close to us, and slowly 
closing his MS. notes, he folded his arms, and said, with 
particular force and clearness : — 

‘ If the man who just now interrupted me will rise, I 
shall be glad to speak to him.’ 

No answer — no sound behind us, but a little uneasy 
rustling. 

‘ Martin Churt ! ’ 

I declare the words seemed to strike me on the face, 
they were so firmly spoken, and aimed so directly be- 
hind me. 

‘ Martin Churt, I know you can speak — I have heard 
you myself ; did I interrupt you so ? ’ He carried his 
eyes roun<l the room, repeating, ‘Did I?’ And several 
men’s voices answered, ‘ Noa, that thee didn’t, zur.’ 

‘ Martin,’ continued Giles, in a more colloquial tone, 
‘ If I were you, I would stand up and say what I had to 
say ; you could not have a better opportunity. Get on 
the bench, man, and have it out.’ (There was now a 
sound at our back of hard breathing and puffing, as if 
some gentleman of the lower sort might be holding 
down his head and dabbing his face with his handker- 
chief.) 

‘ It is true that these good fellows and these good 
women came to give a hearing to me,’ continued Giles ; 
‘ but I dare say they can spare a little time for you. 
You could speak on Sunday afternoon, when I heard 
you holding forth on the common. Get up and let us 
hear the sound of your voice new.’ 

22 


838 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


*Ay, ay, let us,’ shouted a voice from the corner: 
‘fair play be a jewel.’ 

‘You told the people then that there was no God; 
the more fool you to say it, and they to listen, when 
you know as well as they do that there is a God, and a 
^ood one. Now I am telling them that our good God 
nas made the world large enough for all his creatures. 
N ell, man, what have you to say against that ? ’ 

Somebody started up behind us now, jumped on the 
bench, and a coarse voice blurted out, ‘ There’s a mort 
d’ things moight be said, if a chap knowed how to speak 
his mind — tWngs goes wrong, and them rascally upper 
classes — ’ 

Here he paused and cleared his throat ; but he had 
lost his advantage by this hesitation, for a loud voice 
bawled out behind us with a countrified twang, ‘ Good 
Lord, if he be’ ant a calling out agin them upper classes 
agen — haw, haw, haw ! ’ 

Roars of coarse laughter followed ; the most exquis* 
ite wit could not have excited more ecstatic applause. 
It seemed to be more alarming to poor Lou than the 
unfriendly hiss, for she shook in every limb, and pres- 
ently turned so pale that Liz made a sign to me that 
we must leave the room ; and not without extreme 
reluctance I rose and followed them. 

The little door at which Giles and the clergyman had 
entered stood ajar, and was close to us; before the 
navvies had done exercising their lungs in laughter, we 
had passed through it, and shut it behind us. How 
vexed I was ! 

Liz and I were both very cross, and did not fail to 
give Lou a little wholesome scolding, under the infiic- 
tion of which she presently began to cry, and then to 
recover herself. Meanwhile we longed to go back, es- 
pecially as the noise in the lecture-room increased ; how- 
ever, we did not think we could do that with propriety, so 
we listened at the crack of the door, but we could not 
make out much. And after a short time it was evident 
that St. George was again master of the field, and was 
going on with his lecture. It was very dull, and rather 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


33 » 


dark in the little room to which we had retreated. 
There was one candle, which was guttering down in the 
tin candlestick, for there was a strong draught ; and by 
its light we pursued the only occupation that the room 
afforded. We examined the dingy maps that hung on 
the walls. 

At last it was evident that the assembly was dispers- 
ing, and presently after Mr. Brandon came to us with 
Valentine and Tom. 

Lou went up to her brother as if in some alarm for 
his safety, laid her hands on his shoulders, and looked 
anxiously in his face, but did not meet with any sym- 
pathy, only a pinch on the cheek, and ‘ How could you 
be such a goose, Lou dear? Miss Graham, were you 
afraid ? ’ 

‘ Afraid I No. Oh I I was just for an instant at 
first.’ 

‘Why should she have been?’ said Lou. ‘Your be- 
ing ridiculed or hissed out of the room is not of the 
same consequence to her.’ 

‘ Lou, I conscientiously believe that you would have 
been just as much frightened if the lecturer had been a 
perfect stranger to you.’ 

‘Were not you frightened yourself?’ 

‘ No, I foresaw it all along, and at first it hampered 
me ; but I had to exert myself a good deal after you 
were gone, and the room became frightfully hot ; so I 
think you must make room for me inside the trap.’ 

It is remarkable how much men despise close car- 
riages, and what disrespectful epithets they invent for 
them. Mr. Brandon, on taking his place with us, took 
care to remark that he only did so because he had to 
speak the next night at some meeting or other, and 
therefore, as it poured with rain, and he had no great- 
coat, it behooved him to take precaution not to catch 
a cold. 

Great interest was expressed about Tom and Valen- 
tine ; the latter, on account of his whooping-cough, was 
not to return in the open dog-cart ; so he and Tom had 
procured a chaise, and were in our rear. It was very 


840 


OFF THE SKELLIOb. 


dark, and Liz and Lou vainly searched the darkness for 
them, and was sure the driver had deposited them in the 
ditch. This fear I did not share, and I wished somebody 
would mention the lecture, but no one did. 

Mr. Brandon had settled himself in his corner, and 
held his peace. And when Liz and Lou had ascer- 
tained that we and the fly had safely passed the ditch, 
they were silent too, till within ten minutes of our 
reaching home, when we heard shouts behind us, and the 
carriage stopped. We let down the window, and Tom’s 
voice shouted fl*om the fly, ‘ Valentine says what are 
we to say about the hissing to his father ? ’ 

‘ Tell him to say nothing, but go to bed, and leave 
me to manage it,’ replied Giles ; ‘ and, Graham — ’ 

‘ All right. I hear — ’ 

‘If the subject can be staved off till to-marrow, 1 
fihall be glad.’ 


OFF TEE SKELL1Q8. 


S41 


CHAPTER XXI. 

T he next day I noticed that a profound silence was 
observed on the subject of the lecture, and Mr. 
Mortimer, who was supposed to be in low spirits, 
received more than the usual attention from his chil- 
dren. Every one secretly pitied him, and there was a 
talk in the family that Tom and Mr. Brandon were to 
go over to a neighboring town to choose a present for 
his birth-day. This delicate attention, it was thought, 
might divert his mind from his mortification ; and when 
I asked Valentine what the present was to be, he replied 
that he ‘ only knew it was to be appropriate to the day, 
— consequently it would of course be a tankard.’ 

‘ Why ? ’ I asked ; ‘ why a tankard ? ’ 

‘ Because the day is muggy.’ 

‘ I don’t believe you invented that joke yourselfj it 
does not sound at all original.’ 

‘Doesn’t it? Well, perhaps I did not, then; but I 
seemed to think I did.’ 

‘I suppose you have not forgotten that I proposed 
to read with you ? ’ 

‘Not at all. I cannot go out of doors such weather, 
BO I’ll read all day if you like.’ 

‘Pity you give such a bad reason for a^good action.’ 
‘Would you have me give a good reason for a bad 
action instead? as the Feejce Islander did, when he 
threatened to leave off eating Englishmen altogether, 
because their flesh tasted so of salt.’ 

He then began, in a fitful sort of way, to read and 
construe, while Liz and Lou sat by at work ; and Mrs, 
Henfrey alternately read her novel and listened to our 
frequent sparring. 

‘I wish I knew what old Giles was talking about, 


842 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


he exclaimed, when, the rain having ceased, he saw his 
lather and Mr. Brandon sauntering along a gravel-walk, 
and talking. 

‘Old’ in some families is a term of opprobrium; but, 
as used by Valentine, it was generally supposed to ex- 
press affection. 

‘ What should he be talking of?’ said Lou. 

‘He’s such an old patriarch,’ continued Valentine, 
‘ Why, he’s talking of me, to be sure. I know he is. 
Now, Miss Graham, you never heard me cough, did 
you?’ 

‘No, not once.’ 

‘ What business is it of his, then, if I do cough at 
night? How he found out that I do, I can’t think. 
Am I to be spied out, and cockered up, and blanketed 
all my days ? ’ 

‘What has St. George been doing?’ asked one of 
the rls. 



‘ Doing ! Why, just after I got into bed last night, 
he marched into my room hauling a great blanket after 
him, and carrying a candle. A happy instinct warned 
me of what he was after, so when he spoke I did not 
answer a word, for I knew if I stirred a limb, or even 
wagged a finger, I should begin to cough. So I lay like 
a log, and we stared at each other with cheerful per- 
sistency. He set down his candle (only consider my 
helpless condition, I could not throw so much as a pil- 
low at him!) and he began to examine the bed-clothes; 
said curtains were unwholesome ; and it was no use try- 
ing to harden myself by having only one blanket, when 
T was wheezing like an old broken-winded horse. So 
he took his blanket, laid it over, and, as he stood lean- 
ing against the bed-post preaching at me, he ignomini- 
ously tucked it in with his foot. If I was a pet felon in 
jail, 1 could not be more pestered with attention than I 
am. What with beef-tea and comforters, my life’s a 
burden to me. But to be tucked up ! — there he goes 
again, laying down the law, and papa is listening.’ 

Well,’ said Mrs. Henfrey, ‘ what did he do next?’ 

‘ Do 1 Why, he sat down op the side of the bed and 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 


343 


lectured me; said it was unmanly to neglect my health, 
and showed a cowardly wish to escape the duty of 
being prudent ; said it was selfish, talked about papa, 
you know, and my duty to myself on his account ; and 
how, if anything happened to me, it would break his 
!ieart. Well, that’s an affecting point of view to set it 
in, but he shouldn’t have tucked me up ! However, in 
Another minute it was all over with me, Giles went on 
talking of papa : “ How could I go on in this way, when 
I knew I was as dear to him as the apple of his eye?” 
I could not stand that; I said, “ Which eye ? ” Now 
that seems a natural enough question to ask ; but I sup- 
pose my long silence made it impressive, for old Giles 
forgot all his heroics, and laughed till he shook the bed. 
Papa has a habit, sometimes, of looking at one, rubbing 
his hands, and whispering to himself, “ He’s as dear to 
me, this fellow is, as the very apple of my eye.” Some- 
times he does it to St. George, and sometimes to me. 
“ 1 suppose as one was appropriated to you before I was 
bom, and he has but two, mine must be the left,” I went 
on ; “ and to be as the apple of one’s father’s left eye, is 
no such great matter, when he can’t see out of it. O 
the meanness of keeping the good eye for yourself.” 
Well, I paid dear for that sally ; he laughed, but I began 
to cough, and I coughed (to use an appropriate simile) 
till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of my boots.’ 

‘Dear me,’ said Mre. Henfrey, anxiously. She was 
very much disturbed to hear this, and not at all amused 
At his queer way of relating it. ‘Then what is St. 
George going to do ? ’ 

‘ That is exactly what I want to know. I hope he is 
not ruining all my prospects in life ; but if he is, I can- 
not help it. I’ve done my best.’ 

Ho now plunged into his exercise, and only paused 
once during the next half hour to say, ‘Here am I 
taken in tow by the powerful steam-tug “Dorothea,” 
registered A 1, for fifteen years. I’m coming into port 
at a spanking rate, and I know they’ll say, “ Let him 
keep on terms with the young woman ; what signifies 
/lis terms with old Alma Mater ? ” ’ 


844 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


Presently he broke out again, — 

‘ Here am I, six feet one in my socks (St. Georg*^ is 
only a bare five feet eleven when he first wakes in the 
morning), and yet I’m reading Greek with a girl, and 
have never yet had so much as one sniff of the air of 
freedom. If I had been up at Cambridge all these 
weeks, and my cough had been left alone, perhaps it 
would have been well before now.’ 

Aunt Christie now came in, and Mrs. Henfrey detailed 
to her how Valentine coughed at night. I never saw 
any one so gently, peaceably, and persistently unin- 
terested in the droll side of things as Mrs. Henfrey was, 
and yet so kind and comfortable. Though she was a 
widow and had lost two young children, her face looked 
unworn and satisfied. In her life the affections must 
surely have played a subordinate part. She had let her 
good things go easily. She had what are called sub- 
stantial comforts about her, and she pleased herself with 
them. Perhaps she had never held the others very 
closely to her heart; but a little shade- of anxiety was 
visible now on her pleasing face. And when Aunt 
Christie made light of ‘the Cubit’s’ ailment, it did 
not reassure her. 

Aunt Christie was not in the least like one’s notion of 
a spinster in poor circumstances. There was an afilu- 
ence of energy, and sometimes an agreeable vehemence 
in her ways, that spoke of strength, both of mind and 
body. Her hands and feet were large and bony ; and, 
though more than sixty years old, she evidently found 
a deep joy in life, and thought of it as a great blessing. 

She soon began to talk to me, and Valentine called 
her to order, — 

‘Miss Graham belongs to me. We haven’t done our 
Greek yet.’ 

Presently she spoke again, and again he found fault, 
and she ridiculed him. 

‘We’ve done our Greek now,’ I observed. 

‘But I have annexed you,’ he answered. ‘I’m a 
great comfort to you; I satisfy the craving you have to 
be useful, you know ; and I consider that, in return, you 


OFF THE SKELLIQS, 


345 


ought to devote yourself to me. In fact, it’s no fun to 
talk to you, unless I can have you, as it were, for my 
own possession.’ 

‘ Ay, ay, possession ! ’ said Aunt Christie. ‘ It’s aston- 
ishing how early the mind of humanity begins to 
cling to the notion of possession. I remember I was 
but seven or eight years old’ (here he interrupted her, 
but she went on just the same) — ‘I was but seven or 
eight years old when my father gave me a bit of ground 
to make a garden of, and through it ran a little burn 
that before it reached us came down past one or two of 
the cotter’s doors. One day, some of their bairns made 
and launched on it a fleet of paper boats. They came 
floating down into my water, and I, full of a lofty indig- 
nation to think that they should intrude where I was 
mistress of the property, flung out every one of the 
flabby things with my rake ; and while they lay wrecked 
on the grass, I proudly compared myself to Y an Tromp, 
sailing through the narrow seas with a broom at his 
mast-head, to signify that he had swept the English 
ships from the Channel.’ 

She had a way of telling this which showed she meant 
to compare his conduct with her own, and nothing that 
he said made any difierence. He had been made ridicu- 
lous in my eyes and in his own. 

Tom and Mr. Brandon were away some hours ; but, 
while dressing me for dinner, Mrs. Brand told me they 
had returned, and brought a gentleman with them, who 
would stay and dine — a Doctor Simpsey ; and the cook 
had received orders to keep back the dinner half an 
hour. ‘ She says she never lived with such a trying 
family,’ continued Mrs. Brand. ‘ She is sure the din- 
ner will be spoilt ; and she is so nervous, she is hardly 
fit to dish up.’ 

‘Well, but if the dinner is spoilt, she need not worry j 
it will not be her fault.’ 

‘Gentlefolks don’t consider that,’ said Mrs. Brand; 

‘ they don’t know the difliculties there are below while 
they sit eating at their ease — nor the trouble of keep- 
ing jelly cold, and gravy hot, and the fish from burning, 
15 * 


846 


OFF THE SKELLI&S. 


and the pudding from falling. Yet, if the dinner is not 
sent up as well as usual, you may depend on it, Mrs. 
Henfrey will speak about it to-morrow. Ladies always 
do.’ 

Dr. Simpsey was a pleasant man, and did his best to 
make the evening go off well. He and Tom had a long 
and animated conversation, and then we had some 
duets ; but Mr. Mortimer sat {)erfectly silent in his chair, 
and Mr. Brandon watched him, and was very grave. 

Late in the evening, as I sat a little apart from the 
rest, Valentine came up and said, — 

‘You see, St. George did steal a march on me. I 
believe he went away mainly to bring Dr. Simpsey ; and 
when he had got him, he just said to papa that it might 
be as well if he gave me a look. Papa, of course, said 
“Yes.”’ 

‘ But what did the Doctor say ? ’ 

‘ Why, he said I was to eat bread and milk for my 
breakfast. At my age too ! ’ 

‘ You don’t like it, then ? ’ 

‘ If that fellow Prentice were to hear that I eat bread 
and milk for my breakfast, I should never hear the last 
of it.’ 

‘But, surely, that was not all he said?’ 

‘ No ; he poked and tapped, and listened with his eai 
at my chest ; said I was to have a fire in my room all 
day ; and remarked to papa, as if I had been a sweety 
unconscious infant, that I was a very fine young fellow, 
and there was a thickening of the right lung. Then J 
was sent away, and not allowed to hear any more of 
their odious plans.’ 

And he recurred to the prescription of his breakfast, 
and to Prentice, with such heartfelt annoyance, that I 
said, — 

‘ I am very fond of bread and milk ; I shall ask if I 
may have some, too ; and I shall ask Liz to join. No 
doubt she will; and then, if anything does reach the 
ears of Prentice, it will be that some of the family and 
the guests have taken a liking to it, and generally 
eat it.’ 


OFF THE SKELL108. 347 

‘You are a brick!* he exclaimed, ‘if ever there was 

one.’ 

And the next morning three basins ‘ smoked upon the 
board.’ 

Valentine did not appear to feel at all uneasy about 
the remarks of the doctor on his health. He grumbled 
a good deal when he went into the morning room, 
because it had been decreed that for the present he was 
only to go out in fine weather ; but he laid out his 
books and lexicons and exercises, and called on me to 
come and give my lesson, as if he found having some 
one to tyrannize over a set-off against the despotic 
orders of the physician. 

‘And I wish you to understand, my dear young 
friend,’ he presently said, ‘ that you are not going to 
have all the lecturing and instructing to yourself. I am 
going to take my turn now, and overhaul your educa- 
tion a little before I begin my Greek.* 

‘ No, don’t ! ’ I replied, for Tom and Mr Brandon had 
come in, and Aunt Christie was listening. 

‘I shall begin with a few moral remarks,’ he pro- 
ceeded. ‘I wish to see what use you have made of 
your many advantages ; for, no doubt, my young friend, 
you are sensible that you have had advantages. That’s 
the style, isn’t it. Aunt Christie ? ’ 

Aunt Christie pricked up her head. ‘Ye’re just the 
marvel of creation for idleness and impudence,’ she 
answered, with a good-natured laugh. 

‘Now, then,’ he continued, ‘you went on a yachting 
tour last winter : went to Buenos Ayres ? * 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ What’s the latitude and longitude of Buenca 
Ayres ? ’ 

‘ I forget — at least I don’t know with perfect accu- 
racy.’ 

‘ Sad, sad, breaking down at once ! Is that the best 
answer you can give me ? ’ 

‘Why,’ exclaimed St. George, ‘you don’t mean to 
gay that you know yourself? ’ 

‘Ido.’ 


848 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘You have been consulting books of travels then, and 
tliat accounts for some gaps on my shelves.’ 

‘I shall take no notice of your mean insinuation. 
Describe Buenos Ayres, Miss Graham.’ 

‘It’s a horrid, watery, sandy, square, uninteresting 
place.’ 

‘ If I were to go to that country, I have no doubt 1 
could find interesting things in it for years,’ said Valen- 
tine, reproachfully. 

‘No doubt at all. Cubit,’ said Aunt Christie. ‘The 
shallowest sea God ever spread, is deep enough to float 
a flounder.’ 

‘ There’s nothing I could not make something of, or 
get something out of,’ continued the young professor. 

‘ Quite true,’ said St. George. ‘ I believe if you met 
a sea-nymph walking by the shore, you would beg a bit 
of coral of her.’ 

‘And why shouldn’t I?’ exclaimed Valentine. 

‘ Why shouldn’t you put the highest things to their 
lowest use? Well, that’s a subject for your own con- 
sideration quite as much as for mine.’ 

‘So the town’s square, is it?’ said Valentine. ‘Yes, 
I know it is.’ 

‘ J3ut I only went once into the town,’ I continued. 

‘Then make some rather more intelligent remarks 
concerning it.’ 

‘ I saw in the streets paving-stones with English in- 
scriptions on them, such as “Try Warren’s Blacking,” 
and “Do you bruise your Oats yet?” I asked what 
this meant, and was told that they had no stone, so 
they imported old pavement from England. It comes 
as ballast. I think they said they had a contract with 
the Kensington Vestry or the Notting-hill Vestry. I 
know it was somewhere at the West-End. Do you 
find that confirmed in your books ? ’ 

‘ Let me have none of this levity. How wide is the 
river ? ’ 

‘ Thirty or forty miles, I should think ; and when 1 
saw the harbor, it was generally full of carts and horses. 

‘ In the water ? ’ 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


849 


* Of course. The ships lie nearly two miles from the 
shore. The water used to wash over the horses’ backs 
as they came out to them.’ 

‘Do you think the horses liked it?’ 

‘No; they used to kick and plunge a good deal, so 
that great pumpkins and melons, and all sorts of lump- 
ish nuts, and queer fi*uits and berries, used to be set 
afloat out of the carts, and come sailing down to us. 
A man stood bolt upright on each horse’s back, and 
appeared to stand on the water, for you only saw the 
horse’s head, you know.’ 

‘That must have had rather a bathing-machine eflect. 
Well, I can make nothing of you. What else did yon 
flee in those parts ? ’ 

‘I saw Rio.’ 

‘ What have you to remark concerning it ? ’ 

‘It was perfectly beautiful ! and I went in an omnibus 
%o see the Horticultural Gardens.’ 

‘ An omnibus ! ’ 

‘Yes; and there is a rock in them nearly three thou- 
land feet high, and it was so hot that I could har<lly 
bear to lay my hand on it.’ 

‘That’s what we call accurate information. The 
Oorcovada Rock you mean — 2,400 feet high.’ 

‘ Ah ! that is mentioned in your book, then. Does it 
add that the butterflies there, instead of wavering and 
waggling about, go shooting and darting across like 
birds ? I saw some great flowers like open loose lilies, 
and settling on them were crowds of large butterflies, 
with perfectly transparent wings. The sun shone 
through them, and all their delicate little veins were 
reflected on the lilies. It was intensely hot, but that 
could not have been the reason why the birds were so 
lazy they expected us to get out of their way. When 
I came among a crowd of large ones, I felt inclined to 
say, “Do get out of my path, will you?” Buenos 
Ayres smelt of wool : all that part of South America 
had a wooljy smell that you could perceive out at sea. 
But Rio had a slightly mouldy scent, as of damp woods 
and fruits wasted and decaying in the hot, flowery 
meadows.’ 


350 


OFF THE 8KELL1G8. 


‘Fancy, more fancy, Miss Graham, Ho'/ am I to 
classify such talk as this ? ’ 

‘ I have often noticed,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘ i^hat every- 
thing coming from the prairie towns in the S -ates has a 
perceptible smell of grass.’ 

‘ And you can smell London ten miles off by the 
smoke,’ observed Mrs. Henfrey. 

‘And all India smells of sandal-wood,’ remarked 
Tom. 

‘Very improving, this. Proceed.’ 

‘ The cooks go to market on horseback. The beggars 
beg on horseback (at least, the cripples d4.‘y, and the 
children ride down the hills to school on thi backs of 
large sheep.’ 

‘Now, I wonder whether that’s true, or uit! Have 
you any other remark to make ? ’ 

‘Yes. I did not hear any birds sing at Rio, but the 
frogs chirped exactly as sparrows do, and there were 
flies who whistled at night. Their note was just like a 
railway whistle, and quite as loud.’ 

‘Now, stop! I am going to sum up, and I will 
mainly insist on that perverse ingenuity which has not 
only avoided conveying one single item of worthy in- 
formation, but which has prevented me from bringing 
out my learning. One more question. What is the 
depth of Rio harbor?’ 

‘ I don’t know.’ 

‘Then, as Captain Cuttle said, “No more don’t I.”’ 

After this I had Valentine and his Greek to myselt 
all the rest of the morning, and, after luncheon, April 
having treated us to one of her ever-fresh varieties, and 
given us a warm, still, and very sunny day, we sallied 
forth in a body to a certain fir copse, where we meant 
to sit for a while. Aunt Christie bringing some books 
with her, and Tom also. We reached a screen of 
larches, and came through it to a place where the under- 
wood had been cut away, and the large trees left. A 
good many felled trunks lay on the ground, with clumps 
of primroses about them, and on the slope’ of a ridge 
grew whole natious of anemones and wild hyacinths. 


OFF TEE SKELL108, 


351 


We sat down on the ridge, just in fi-ont of the screen 
of firs. The long, deep dell was all bare to the light, 
for the chestnuts and poplar-trees had not yet unfolded 
their crumpled leaves, and the sun was pouring down 
bis rays on the heads of the flowers. I do not know 
that a partly felled wood is a particularly lovely place 
in general, but that unsullied sky was delightful, so was 
the sudden warmth and the thick shelter behind us, and 
I liked to see the shy English birds flitting about and 
piping, and then peeping round corners at us. 

Aunt Christie was with us, but not Mrs. Henfrey, she 
almost always remained where Mr. Mortimer chose to 
be. Valentine presently came up, with a large untidy 
bunch of flowers in each hand, and his little dog fol- 
lowed with some twigs of flowering larch in his mouth. 

Aunt Christie began to caress him. It appeared that 
he was Emily’s dog, and had been left in special charge 
of Valentine. 

‘ Bonny Emily !’ said Aunt Christie, ‘ I miss her. It’s 
not much of a man she’s got ; but, I’ll answer for it, 
she rules him well.’ 

‘She does,’ said Mr. Brandon. ‘Not that that is 
anything uncommon ; this is a woman-ridden age. 
Yet, it is but fair to confess that all the former ones 
were man-ridden ages. What we want is a happy pro- 
portion.’ 

‘ Emily was always sure such wonderful things were 
coming,’ remarked Lou. ‘Wasn’t she, St. George?’ 

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘Emily always wanted aU~ 
wanted the sea at her doorsteps, to come singing up the 
street, between her and the opposite neighbors. Have 
we no boats ? How easy to step on board ; and then 
we should be out on the road that leads everywhere^ 

Valentine, who had flung himself full length on the 
slope, and tied his flowers together, taking the twigs 
from his dog to add to them, now reared himself on 
one elbow, and graciously saying, ‘There, I knew you 
wanted some of these,’ dropped the ponderous lump of 
flowers on my lap. 

‘ My dear boy ! said Mr. Brandon, ‘ I really think I 


352 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


must take you in hand ; is that the sort of nosegay to 
give a lady — bigger than her head, and tied up vvit.h 
an old hat-band, torn off for the occasion ? ’ 

‘Well,’ answered Valentine, sulkily, ‘I had nothing 
else to tie it up with ; and as for bigness, I got one 
twice as big, last week, for Jane Wilson’ 

‘Worse and worse! you shouldn’t have mentioned 
that little tact at all. Now, when I give a nosegay to 
a lady — ’ 

‘ Ah 1 but you never do.’ 

‘ How do you know that ? ’ 

‘Ay,’ said the old aunt, ‘how does he know that?' 
It was an ay at least two syllables long. 

Mr. Brandon made some reply, in which he was 
especially severe on the dripping cur, out of whose 
mouth some of the stuff had been taken, and who, he 
said, had been pushing his nose into every rat-hole 
within reach; and Valentine, taking the matter quite 
in earnest, exclaimed, ‘Now, Liz, now. Aunt Christie, 
isn’t this a shame ? — Giles was never known in all his 
days to be attentive and polite. It’s my belief he can’t 
bear girls ; and, because I try to supply his deficiencies, 
be calls my dog a cur.’ 

‘Oh, pray defend your dog,’ I said; ‘you seem to 
feel the remarks on him far more than those on your- 
self.’ 

‘So I do ; he smells no worse than other fellow’s 
dogs, when they have been rat-hunting; and, as to 
carrying things for me, that’s his nature — he’s only 
acting according to his lights.’ Then, observing that 
we were laughing at him for taking the thing so seri- 
ously, he suddenly came out of his sulky fit, and ex- 
claimed, ‘ If I could see your nosegays, Giles, no doubt 
I should have a fine example to copy ; but it’s my belief 
they are not yet gathered.’ 

‘ Nor likely to be,’ said Lou. 

‘ Fancy, Giles presenting a nosegay 1 ’ exclaimed Liz. 

‘ On one knee, with the words, “ Accept this wreath, 
O loveliest of thy sex ! ” ’ said Mr. Brandon ; ‘ that is 
my favorite style.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


353 


Presently after this Tom was desired by the old aunt 
to read, and he took up a volume of Carlyle that he 
had with him, and some of us listened, and the others 
took an interest in the bringing down of a ragged last 
year’s nest, which hung in a young tree, close in front 
of us. 

Valentine first flung his own bandless hat at it; but, 
instead of coming down with the nest, it stuck up 
there, in the fork itself. Many fir-cones lay strewed 
about; these he collected into a heap, and the two 
brothers, as they sat, pelted the hat with great skill and 
interest, till Liz, suddenly observing that Valentine had 
nothing on his head, leaned forward, and, whispering 
for a moment to Mr. Brandon, lifted oflT his hat and 
quietly put it on Valentine. Neither of the two took 
any particular notice ; and there was something so easy 
and familiar in the little action, that I wondered afresh 
whether it was all my own fault that my brother held 
me, as it seemed, so far off. 

But the fir-cones being now exhausted with no effect, 
St. George took up the big bunch of flowers, which lay 
beside me, and flung it up with such force into the tree, 
that it brought the hat crashing down at last, and the 
nest and a dead bough with it. On hearing the noise 
and seeing this pother, Tom naturally looked up, and 
paused, whereupon Miss Christie, no doubt thinking it 
would not be courteous to let him suppose we took no 
interest in his reading, proceeded to make some observa- 
tions on it, and Tom, shutting the book, said, ‘ Carlyle 
is a rare old boy ; he digs up a thought, now and them 
which is like a nugget of pure gold.’ 

‘Ah, but we should value it more if he sometimes 
left it uncoined,’ observed Mr. Brandon; ‘he always 
stamps it with his own image and superscription.’ 

‘Now, what do you mean by that, for goodness’ 
sake ? ’ said Aunt Christie, a little tartly. 

‘ That it is egotistical to write in such a style that 
nobody can mistake a sentence for any other man’s 
concoctions.’ 

‘Ah, well, Giles, we all know that the poor old man 


354 


OFF THE SKELLTGS. 


is no favorite of yours; but,’ she added, as if conscious 
that she had only said this because she was secretly 
vexed at any sort of disparagement of any old person 
whatever, — ‘but I think this old woman is and always 
has been.’ 

‘ I^oor old man^ repeated Tom, very much amused at 
such an expression applied to Carlyle ; ‘ now, suppos© 
we try a change.’ 

‘Yes, but not Tennyson — not the Mendelssohn of 
poets,’ exclaimed Mr. Brandon, as if in great alarm. 

‘ Why not ? ’ replied Tom. 

‘ Because I am so choked up with sentiment already 
to-day, that I hardly know what to do with myself, 
and I know he’ll make me worse.’ 

‘ I like sentiment,’ said Lou, idly ; ‘ it’s so soothing.’ 

‘Soothing! soothing, indeed? Well, if I am to 
jdiinge into sentiment, let it be over head and ears, 
and in good earnest, and let there be nobody there to 
see. But a large party dallying with it, and dipping 
in here a foot, and there a finger, is what I cannot un- 
derstand.’ 

‘Because you are so vehement,’ said Tom. ‘Now, 
when I read this sort of thing, I feel like a cat sitting 
still to be stroked by its master’s hand. I like it, and 
purr accordingly.’ 

‘ When my masters lay their hands upon me, I never 
feel that I am being stroked ; I feel the thrill of their 
touch vibrating among the strings of my heart, and 
playing wild music on that strange instrument, to a 
tune that I never intended, making it tremble and shake 
to its inmost core, in their unsparing race over the 
chords.’ 

‘Do you mean to say that any living poet has such 
an efiTect on you now ? ’ 

‘ No ; but a man who once had real power, must re- 
tain a portion of it thus, that the old strain recalls the 
time when it was felt to be so suitable and so telling ; 
and nothins: is more afiectin^ than to be thrown back 
into one’s former self unawares.’ 

‘ I’m sure it’s past my power to see any resemblance 


OFF TEE SKELLTOS. 355 

between Tennyson and Mendelssohn,’ said Aunt 
Christie. 

‘ There is a kind of subtile beauty in their harmonies. 
Something dreamy, and a general pensiveness of effect 
which comes partly from high finish. They are both 
ten<ler and not passionate, and they both appeal strongly 
to the feminine side of a man’s nature, hlandel, on tlio 
contrary, is almost exclusively masculine, just as IVIil 
ton is.’ 

‘Handel is a very jolly fellow,’ said Tom. 

‘ He is a glorious fellow ; I like him better than Mil- 
ton, and Tennyson better than Mendelssohn. Handel’s 
humanity is grave and deep; his pathos manly, his 
reverence sublime. When I hear his music I feel the 
more a man for it. He makes one brave. His sweet- 
ness does not subdue, but comfort and elevate; his 
passion keeps clear of all puling. I go and hear him 
whenever I can.’ 

‘Giles is like a jockey,’ observed Valentine, ‘he goes 
into training to make himself strong.’ 

‘ And he’s as full of sentiment as he can hold,’ said 
the old aunt, nodding at him. ‘ I always used to be^ 
afraid he would turn out a poet himself. Why didn’t 
ye, Giles?’ 

‘It was entirely an account of the rhymes,’ he an- 
swered, bantering her. ‘ There are so many bad rhymes 
in the English language, and they would come to me.’ 

‘ And that’s a pity,’ she answered with gravity ; ‘ a bad 
rhyme, like a bad egg, is aye conspeecuous. You may 
beat up a dozen eggs in the cake, but if only one if 
them’s bad it spoils all. Now what are you two girls 
laughing at?’ 

‘ Perhaps at your notion about Giles turning out a 
poet,’ said Valentine. 

‘And Miss Graham, too,’ she continued. ‘WeH 
child, ye might know better, for ye’ve seen the world ; 
but, as I remember, ye found some of the strangest 
parts of it very uninteresting.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Giles, ‘ I was surprised when you said that, 
Miss Graham. I should have thought you would find 


856 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


plenty there to gratify the widest and most wholesome 
curiosity.’ 

‘ Ay, and intelligence, too,’ proceeded Aunt Christie. 
‘ And I am glad, to be sure, she has some of that ; for, 
my dears, all of you, ye may have remarked that one 
must have a certain amount both of intelligence and 
knowledge to be amazed even at the most extraor- 
dinary things.’ 

We admitted the truth of this, and she went on. 
* I remember when I was a mere wean I had a nurse- 
girl that thought to make me respect and fear her by 
telling me that her grandmother was a very powerful 
witch ; and, indeed, if she pleased to mutter her spells 
she could make the moon come down into our back 
yard ; but I was not at all impressed, for I argued with 
myself that the moon, as I had seen, came down some- 
where every night, with no spells at all. At one time 
I had seen it go down into the trees behind the manse, 
at another it would dip the other side that hill where 
Johnnie MacQueen had his potato garden. So I just 
answered, “When you’re granny brings her down so 
near as that, ye won’t forget to wake me, for I would 
dearly like to have a look at her.” ’ 

This story was mainly directed at me, and was sup- 
posed to illustrate my want of intelligence ; but there 
was more good-nature than malice in it, and Aunt 
Christie evidently felt that now she had the laugh on 
her side. 

‘And all this time,’ she continued, ‘we’re keeping 
the lieftenant from his books.’ 

‘Because Brandon’s so afraid of Tennyson,’ said 
Tom. And I broke in, ‘I should be very sorry to do 
without him.’ 

‘ Ten years ago I embued myself with him thoroughly,’ 
observed Mr. Brandon. ‘ Like a cow that is fed on mad- 
der I was dyed in his color to the very bones ; that was 
when I was young and careless, as you all are now, in- 
cluding Aunt Christie, Lou ! ’ 

‘Yes, dear,’ answered Lou. 

‘ I hear the sound of wheels — the wheels as of a 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 357 

very exceeding old and rickety yeUow chariot. It wil] 
be onr painful duty to go in.’ 

‘Who sits in the yellow chariot?’ asked Toni. 

‘A fine woman. Unless her soul is twice the cus- 
tomary size, it can be no match for its tabernacle.’ 

‘ I’ll go in and pay my respects to the fine woman.’ 

‘ Sister knows where we are,’ observed Liz ; ‘ if she 
wants us, she can send for us.’ 

‘Mrs. Wilson and Jane with her,’ exclaimed Yalen^ 
tine. ‘ They are come to call on Aunt Christie.’ 

A carriage was now seen for a moment, and a smiling 
face nodding and bowing. ‘ Well, we must go in,’ said 
the girls, and we all rose. 

‘ But there is no need for Miss Graham to come in,’ 
observed Mr. Brandon. ‘ I dare say she would much 
prefer to be left here for half an hour.’ 

I replied that I should like it exceedingly, and they 
went away, Mr. Brandon saying that he would come 
when the Wilsons were gone and fetch me in. 

When they were gone I leaned my chin upon my 
hand, had a long and delightful dream all to myself 
and sat so still that the birds and squirrels grew bold, 
and the butterflies, taking me perhaps for a mere erec- 
tion made of drapery, settled nearer, and then the 
robins began to sing with shriller notes and hop about 
with a perter air. 

In what seemed a very little while, I heard the tread 
of a man’s foot on the dead twigs, and Mr. Braudon 
approached, and strange to say he had some wild 
flowers in his hand — a nosegay fresh and perfect, made 
of the most delicate flowers and the youngest leaves 
and newly-opened violets. He looked very grave, as 
he generally did when not talking. ‘ I hope you have 
not found the time long,’ he said ; ‘ we have been away 
three-quarters of an hour.’ Then he sat down a little 
below me on the slope, took out a manuscript, and 
tearing off its last leaf, on which nothing was written, 
folded it round his nosegay, and said gravely, ‘ I robbed 
you of your flowers, may these take their place? 
IIow little sisters know their brothers ! was the thought 


858 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


that darted into ray mind, but I tried to be as grave as 
he was while I held out ray hand for them, and said, 
‘Is that MS. the lecture. If so, I did not hear the 
end of it ? ’ 

‘ Nor any one else as here written,’ he replied. ‘I 
only write ray lectures down, because being a coward 
by nature, I seldom like to stand up without something 
to fall back upon in case I should lose my self-posses- 
sion.’ 

‘ What would be likely to take it away ? ’ I inquired. 

He looked surprised at my question, and no wonder, 
for it asked him to unfold a little point in his character, 
which at first I thought he meant to keep to himself, 
but he did not. He replied, ‘ If I were to look up sud- 
denly and see some one whose presence I had been un- 
aware of, and whom I very much wished to please, I 
might lose it ; and yet if I had known beforehand of 
that very person’s intended presence, and been ready 
for it, I should find it a great stimulus ; and I think 
most people would give the same account of them- 
selves. 

‘ I suppose,’ he presently added, ‘ you know who it 
was that saved my lecture last night? You recog- 
nized the voice that made game of my assailants ? ’ 

‘ No, indeed.’ 

‘It was Graham. That fellow is so quick — he 
seized the opportunity instantly.’ 

‘ How clever of himl ’ 

‘Yes.’ Then he hesitated and presently said, ‘1 
wonder whether you have any influence over him.’ 

‘ No, not the least in the world.’ 

‘You are sure of that; you feel that you have no 
power to persuade him.’ 

‘ No, indeed, I have none.’ 

‘ That is odd,’ he went on, ‘ for you began to influ- 
ence my young brother directly.’ 

‘ They are not alike — they are fitful, and they want 
perseverance, but it is from difierent causes.’ 

‘Yes, that is true,’ he said, and seemed to ponder. 

‘And Tom is so much above me, he is intellectually 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 359 

BO much my superior, that,’ I went on, ‘ I am afraid of 
him.’ 

Upon this he looked up, smiled, and said, ‘Afraid of 
him! Very few people inspire you with such a feeling 
I should think.’ 

‘ On the contrary, when I do not understand people, 
I often feel afraid of them.’ 

‘ Are you afraid of V alentine ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not.’ 

‘ Certainly not!'* with a little exultant laugh. ‘No, 
you can wind that young gentleman round your finger. 
Are you afraid of me ? ’ 

‘ Will you read the end of that lecture ? I should 
like so much to hear it.’ 

Without answering he continued to look at the 
flowers as I held them with one hand on my knee, and 
smoothed a leaf and settled a bud with the other, 
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘you treat my flowers just as you did 
Valentine’s. Along time ago — ten years — as I sat 
in this wood, and almost in this very spot, I gave a 
bunch of flowers to — ’ and here he paused for some 
time, then went on without putting in any name : ‘ She 
held them as she talked, and flattered them with the 
touch of her delicate fingers ; she smoothed the prim- 
rose faces, and spread out the crumpled leaves with her 
caressing hand, but she cared to have them no more 
than you did for that prodigious bunch; and she 
showed it just as you have done. I felt it ("young fool 
that I was) — I felt it to the very heart.’ 

‘ I did not mean to disparage Valentine’s flowers. I 
touched them very lightly, it could not make them 
fade.’ 

‘Very lightly, just as you have been touching mine 
now, as softly as one might smooth a baby’s hair. I 
never saw flowers so treated from that day to this. It 
was not what she did that pained me, but what she did 
not do.’ 

‘ And have I followed her in that omission ? ’ 

His words troubled me exceedingly, they were the 
regi-etful avowal of some passionate love, but as he 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


8G0 

looked up at me he made me so thoroughly oouscioui 
again of the imaginary beauty with which he invested 
me, that I was abashed and felt my face color over 
with a bloom that nature did not bestow on me often. 
They were such inconvenient blushes that I was fain to 
lift up the flowers to hide them, and I inhaled their 
fragrance and lingered over it as long as I could. I 
thought of Dorinda, and wondered how there could be 
anything to be so disturbed about, concerning some 
earlier love, if he was satisfied of hers ; and when I 
was obliged to put the flowers down, I said : ‘ Perhaps 
this friend of yours was just as unconscious of dispar- 
aging the flowers as I have been twice this afternoon ; 
but I should like to be warned for the future. What 
did she do ? ’ 

‘ What did she omit ? It was what you have just this 
moment done. She did not lift them to her face, nor 
let them touch her lips, and exhale their fragrance for 
her. I might have gathered dog-violets for any sweet- 
ness she drew from them.’ 

‘I know you abjure sentiment.’ 

‘Yes, Ido.’ 

‘ Then let us look for a prosaic reason for her be- 
havior. Perhaps that lady did not like the scent of 
flowers.’ 

‘ Perhaps that lady did not like me.^ 

‘ It would be as absurd seriously to conclude so — 

He had turned on his elbow and laughter lighted up 
his eyes when I paused — ‘As to infer the contrary 
now,’ he said, ‘ yes, so it would, and yet if flowers are 
gathered for your especial pleasure and you accept them, 
I think it is singular not to ascertain whether they are 
sweet or not.’ 

‘ As I have done, but then I am not afraid of Tenny- 
son, or of Mendelssohn either.’ 

‘ Do you ever think of the oracular Miss Tott ? It 
would have soothed her sentimental soul to hear you 
make that last speech; she would have moaned over 
your audacity, and answered you as she did Graham — 
^ Ah, you will be some day.” ’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S, 


361 


* Bui shall I ? Do you think I shall ? ’ 

‘My thought should be at your service if it was 
worth having, but I do not know enough of you to 
make it so. Do you remember Walter Scott’s descrip- 
tion of Minna and Brenda, and the feelings of those 
damsels as regarded ghosts? “The one, he says, 
“ believed, but was not afraid; the other did not be- 
lieve, but trembled ” — with which of the two do you 
8}mpathize ? ’ 

‘ I admire the first, though I fear I might not be able 
to imitate her. The second I pity, but I blame and I 
think I almost despise her. At present, my belief is 
that there are no ghosts, and certainly I do not tremble.’ 

‘ When they rise, then, and begin to haunt you, you 
'will, I doubt not, be what you admire — not afraid^ at 
least not long afraid ; you will know that they exist, 
but you will learn first to master them, and then to lay 
them.’ 

‘When they rise? Oh, how can you say such eerie 
things, Mr. Brandon; they make me wish to go in 
directly.’ 

He laughed but answered — ‘ They have made you 
rise, but it is just as well to go in, the air begins to 
fi-eshen, and the sun has lost its power. I am almost 
as doleM as Miss Tott, am I not? ’ 

‘ On the contrary, all these ghosts and spirits of yours 
are evidently unable to daunt you, perhaps they spur 
you on to be more courageous.’ 

‘Perhaps — or my companion may be powerful to 
lay them. There used to be a spirit of the past, tliat 
has often appeared to me in this wood ; you must h ive 
chased it away.’ 

I felt there was something ambiguous in these words, 
but I answered literally — ‘ Oh, no, I do not even be- 
lieve in ghosts, how then can I have any dealings with 
them ? ’ 


16 


362 


OFF THE SKELLTOa 


CHAPTER XXIL 

A S we entered the hall Valentine met us, and 
said, — 

‘ Oh, Giles, what a pity you were out ! Miss 
Dorinda has been here. They came home, it seems, 
this morning. In case you should be away, she left 
this, and said she could not wait, but should be at home 
on Monday morning.’ 

He gave a letter to Giles, who forthwith walked with 
it to the window, and broke the seal. As I went up- 
stairs to change my walking dress, I felt my spirits 
suddenly lowered, and wished there was no such person 
in the world as this Miss Dorinda ; but, then, I had been 
fairly told about her, and that she had a ‘heavenly 
countenance.’ What, then, was the matter with me ? 
Mr. Brandon, according to my then opinion, was of an 
age that made it natural I should like to have him for 
a friend, though he was Miss Dorinda’s lover. S.uch a 
new tone had stolen into his voice, and such a new look 
into his eyes, that I regarded his interest in me as quite 
certain. I greatly wished to have two or three friends 
of the other sex ; but all of a sudden it occurred to me 
that, perhaps. Miss Dorinda might not like it at all. 

I thought of the flowers, too ; and felt a sudden com- 
punction. I was ashamed for myself, and also for him. 
His family had all agreed to laugh at the notion of his 
being attentive to ladies. He had not contradicted 
them; and yet, as soon as we were alone, he had 
thought proper to bring those flowers to me. ‘ Ah ! I 
thought if 1 were engaged, and my lover had brought 
flowers to some other girl, and had talked to her and 
listened to her so, it would have cut me to the heart, if 
I had seen it. But I suppose this is flirting; and it 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


m 

Beems that all men do it, even the gravest of them, 
when their sisters are not there to see.’ Then I re- 
flected on t.ie open manner in which his admiration for 
Miss Braithwaite was talked of by himself and others, 
and supposed he considered this very openness gave 
him a right to be as attentive to other girls as he 
pleased. 

I cannot say that when we met again in the drawing- 
room he seemed at all penitent ; and two or three times 
that evening, though his sisters were present, he spoke 
to me with very much of the same interest that he had 
displayed in the wood. 

But he also talked of Miss Braithwaite — expressed 
his pleasure at her return, and said he never felt like 
himself when she was away. So it could not be an 
engagement made merely for convenience, I thought ; 
but she must have entered into it with a very willing 
mind, if no attention was paid beforehand. 

‘ I shall go over on Monday morning, of course,’ he 
observed. 

‘ How did she look ? ’ asked Mrs. Henfrey. 

‘Why, sister,’ replied Valentine, in a regretful tone, 
‘she looked more fragile than ever; — as if a mere 
breath of wind would blow her away.’ 

Upon this, to my surprise, the sister laughed ; and 
Valentine went on, — 

‘But, perhaps, she thinks it would be more to the 
purpose if the wind would blow somebody else away. 
No doubt she has been singing that song that Liz is so 
fond of — 

‘ “Wind of the western sea, blow him again, 

Blow him again, blow him again to me.” * 

‘ Is nothing to be sacred from your foolish jokes ? ’ 
exclaimed Mr. Brandon, darting an angry look at 
Valentine, who was so startled at the suddenness of 
the rebuke and its vehemence, that he stopped singing, 
with his mouth open. 

It had been impossible not to laugh at his cracked 
voice; but when we perceived that the matter wan 


864 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


serious, we became grave as quickly as we could. Lia 
and Louisa forthwith began to play a duet, which had 
been open before them for some time, while they waited 
till it was the pleasure of the family to hear it. 

Valentine went away to the window, at the end of the 
long drawing-room, and sulked there awhile. I could 
not help watching him — so much of him, at least, as 
I could see, for it was a bow-window ; but the curtains 
were hung straight across, so as to inclose a little den 
behind them. As he was evidently very sulky, indeed, 
and no overtures of peace were made, I shortly followed 
him there ; but not out of pure pity — it was quite as 
much because I did not wish to be asked to sing. He 
had ensconced himself in the deep window-seat, and 
was staring out into the starry sky, when I looked in 
between the heavy grey curtains, which hung about a 
foot apart. 

‘ Well,’ he said, like a great, blunt boy, ‘ what do you 
want?’ 

‘ What are you doing here ? ’ 

‘ Doing ? Why, nothing ! But this is as nice a place 
as any other.’ 

‘ Oh, very nice ; and so cheerful.’ 

‘I am not cheerful, then. What business has St* 
George to stamp upon me as he does ? ’ 

Then, after a pause, — 

‘ Hang Dorinda ! ’ 

‘You need not try to make me believe that you are 
out of temper,’ I replied ; ‘you are tired of that. You 
have not dignity enough to act the martyr for long 
together.’ 

He screwed his face into all manner of twists to hide 
a smile, but the smile would come, and then came a 
laugh ; and he exclaimed, — 

‘ I say, I wish you would come in here and sit with 
me.’ 

So I came in, and we sat together in the window- 
seat, — sometimes looking out on the dark, driving 
clouds; and sometimes into the lighted drawing-room; 
for the long curtains, sweeping apart on each side, 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


S6o 

enabled us to see what was passing there. We were 
deep in sea talk when Liz looked in. She wanted 
Valentine, and so did St. George. He was to play the 
flute part of some new duets. Valentine sent word 
back to his brother that I would not let him go. I 
could not spare him. Whereupon, Mr. Brandon pres- 
ently put his head into our retreat. 

‘How, Giles,’ said Valentine, ‘I’m improving my 
mind ; Miss Graham is telling me a story. And if you 
want to come in, come in! and don’t stand blocKing 
out the light. Well, go on. Miss Graham. “She was 
sailing right in the wind’s eye,” didn’t you say, “ when 
he, most unexpectedly, closed it; and they wouidn’t 
have been able to trim the sails if one of them hadn’t 
been torn to ribbons, which they naturally used for the 
purpose.” ’ 

‘ Nonsense ! ’ 

‘Ah! it’s very well to say nonsense; but I’ve heard 
Giles say that if it was possible to use a sea term 
erroneously, you had the wit to do it. Your brother 
says the same. No, it wasn’t exactly that, St. George, 
that we were talking of. She was telling me, that in a 
ehip the yards in sailing before the wind are braced 
square, and the mizzen sail alone is usually in a fore- 
and-aft position. Isn’t that a nice thing to know? 
I’m glad they brace the yards square, it does 3qual 
honor to their heads and hearts.’ 

‘ Touching confidences,’ said Mr. Brandon ; but, 
Miss Graham, come and sing to us.’ 

‘Oh, you have heard my songs; besides, you said 
last night that I sang without the least feeling.’ 

‘ I did not say so to you.’ 

‘Oh, duty,’ exclaimed Valentine, ‘how often dost 
thou interfere with our pleasure ! ’ 

‘ What else did the Oubit tell you, Miss Graham ? ’ 

‘ That you said I sang in excellent time and tune, but 
without feeling, which you wondered at ; for I had a 
flexible voice, and that I accompanied myself beauti- 
fully.’ 

‘ Aud what do you think she answered?’ said Valen- 


366 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


tine; ‘the self-conceit of girls is amazing. She said, 
“ How do you know that I could not sing with feeling 
if I chose ? ” Then if she could, why doesn’t she ? ’ 

‘ Oh, there are many reasons why people sing without 
feeling,’ he answered ; ‘ some have no feeling to express.’ 

‘Exactly so,’ said Valentine. 

‘ Some have harsh, or cold, or shrill voices, so that 
they strive after expression in vain.’ 

‘Not my own case, happily,’ said Valentine, ‘but a 
common one.’ 

‘ Some people want the poetic faculty ; they have not 
discovered how to match a sensation with a sound, and 
translate their souls into other people’s ears with an A 
flat and a B natural, — as the hooting owl does her 
yearning after young mice for supper.’ 

‘That is common enough, but not our case,’ said 
Valentine. 

‘And some are nervous, and think of nothing but 
getting the song over.’ 

‘That cap does not fit either,’ replied Valentine. 

‘ And some people are sensitive and reserved. They 
are not only half afraid of their own deeper feelings, 
but they are anxious not to betray the existence of any 
such.’ 

‘ And why should they ? ’ I asked ; ‘ why should they 
betray their feelings in a mixed company of people, 
who do not much care for them ? ’ 

‘Why should they, indeed! But why should you 
turn advocate so suddenly?’ He laughed as if very 
much amused, and I could only reply, that I did not 
like any display of feeling. 

‘ People who have deep feelings,’ he answered, ‘ never 
display, and only reveal them to a few ; but to a person 
who has observation they often betray them.’ 

I wondered how much I had betrayed of my anxie- 
ties and disappointment about Tom, when he questioned 
me in the wood as to any influence I had over him. 

‘ Are you a person with much observation ? ’ I 
inquired. 

‘ It would appear that I think so,’ he said. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


367 


‘But if you were, and I knew it,’ was my reply, ‘I 
iliould be impelled to go on singing just the same.’ 

‘You would not,’ he said, ‘if you thought every one 
was observant. It is of no use trying to hide things in 
a cabinet with glass doors.’ 

‘ No, I think in such a case I could not make np my 
mind to sing at all.’ 

‘ Oh yes, I think you could, considering that to under- 
stand is almost always to sympathize.’ 

Almost directly upon this remark, Liz and Lou 
fetched me from my retreat and made me sing, but as 
may easily be imagined, I sang none the better for this 
conversation, but rather the worse, adding nervousness 
to my other faults, and losing my place more than once. 
There is pleasure, no doubt, in conversing with a per- 
son who can make one feel, or fancy, that he has studied 
one’s character with interest, and can sympathize with 
its peculiarities : but in this case it had taken away my 
self-possession, and made me feel that I could do noth- 
ing naturally; and as I sat on the music-stool after- 
wards, so glad that my song was over, Valentine openly 
blamed his brother for not having let my singing alone. 

The next day was a Sunday, a country Sunday, most 
cheerful, quiet, and comforting; we walked to church 
through the green fields and between budding hedge- 
rows. There was a delightful scent of violets, and the 
rustic congregation had so many wall-flowers in their 
button-holes, that the whole place was sweet with them. 
On one side of the chancel sat Lou, with a number of 
chubby little urchins under her care ; on the other, was 
the lovely Charlotte Tikey, looking almost too pretty 
for any common work, but frowning at, and hustling, 
and marshalling the little girls. 

Valentine had said, ‘ When Prentice comes in I shall 
“ hem ! ” that you may look at him.’ 

A heavy determined-looking youngster here ad- 
vanced. The warning ‘ hem ! ’ was given (we were very 
early, be it known). Prentice took his seat in the 
Vicar’s pew. He had stifi* hair, deep-set eyes, a square 
forehead, i short nose, his dress was unexceptionable, 


S68 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


his gloves as tight as drum-parchment, his prayer-book 
gorgeous, his air supercilious. 

I found it almost impossible not to have Prentice in 
my thoughts ; he reminded me of some description I had 
seen in one of Dickens’s works, of a youth about his 
age. When we sang, he seemed to express by his man- 
ner that we had done it very well, considering. When 
the Vicar preached, Prentice was attentive ; he approved 
now and then, as might be seen by his conveying into 
his countenance a look which plainly said, ‘ That is not 
bad — not at all bad. I quite agree with you.’ He was 
also so good as to keep the younger pupils in order, and 
occasionally he favored me with a look of curiosity, and, 
I thought, of disfavor. I felt all the time as if Dickens 
must have seen and sketched him. 

As we came out of church, Prentice and Valentine 
met, and stayed behind to talk, Valentine running after 
and joining us, so very much out of breath that Mrs. 
Henfrey rebuked him for his imprudence. 

‘ When you know,’ she remarked, ‘ that Dr. Simpsey 
particularly said you were not to exert yourself.’ 

‘Why, sister,’ said Valentine, ‘would you have me 
Jet Prentice think that I’m broken-winded ? I say,’ 
addressing me, ‘just take my arm for a minute, will 
you ? Do.’ 

He said this half confidentially, and I did take his 
arm ; but he was so tall that I shortly withdrew, say- 
ing ‘that I preferred to walk alone.’ 

‘ Oh,’ he answered, ‘ I don’t care about it now. That 
fellow Prentice is out of sight. What do you think h€ 
stopped me to talk about ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know.’ 

‘Why, about you. Asked who you were — aii4 
whether you were engaged?’ 

‘ Impertinent boy, what business is it of his ? ’ 

‘ Asked me if I thought of making myself agreeable I 
[ replied that I had done that already ; and ho was as 
savage as possible, though he pretended to be only 
amused.’ 

‘ Tbu were impertinent if you said that.’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


0(59 


* Oh, don’t be vexed; I only said it foi fun. Come, 
I know you are not really angry.’ And, with another 
laugh and chuckle, he went on : ‘ He said he supposed 
we were not engaged.’ 

‘ Engaged ! ’ I exclaimed. ‘ Engaged ! As if I should 
think of such a thing ! ’ 

‘ Well, don’t be so hot about it. I said ‘‘ No ! ” Dis- 
tinctly I said “ No ! ” ’ 

‘ To a boy like you, why, the very idea is prepos- 
‘ier jus.’ 

So this was my first service in an English church 
after months of sea-prayers, or strange looking on at 
foreign Roman Catholic worship. How much I had 
wished for such a Sunday — how fervent I had ex- 
pected my prayers to be ! but now I felt that some of 
my thoughts had been taken up by a conceited school- 
boy, and others had strayed to the wood, and been oc- 
cupied with Mr. Brandon’s speeches, and also with his 
remarks about Tom.- 

In the afternoon things were very little better. Mr. 
Brandon read the lessons for the Vicar. This seemed 
to be his custom, for it excited no attention ; but it was 
a pleasure and a surprise to me. Then Prentice forced 
himself on my mind by his obvious watchfulness of 
Valentine and me, and the determined manner in which 
he kept his face turned in our direction. I could not 
help thinking, too, that Valentine was needlessly care- 
ful to find the lessons and hymns for me, but I had no 
means of preventing this, nor of keeping his eyes on 
his book instead of on my face, where they were not 
wanted, and only fixed to make Prentice burst with 
suspicion and jealousy. 

We sat all together in the evening, and there was 
sacred music and some reading aloud ; but I found op- 
portunity, at last, to give Valentine a lecture. I said I 
would not be made ridiculous ; that Prentice was a most 
absurd boy, and I wondered Valentine could wish to 
make him believe there was a single other youth in the 
world as ridiculous as himself. 

But the next morning, while Valentine and I were 
16 * 


X 


370 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


doing our Greek, the two ladies working, and the two 
girls reading novels, Mr. Brandon came in. He had 
written all Mr. Mortimer’s letters, he said, — had nothing 
more to do for him all day : he and Tom were going to 
walk over to Wigfield, and would we go with them ? 

Liz and Lou were disconcerted. The box was going 
back to Mudie’s, they said, and they had not finished the 
books. Tom came in, and uttered some denunciations 
against novel-writers, but the girls kept their seats, and 
looked good-naturedly determined not to yield. ‘ Doro- 
thea would not come if they did — she had her Greek 
to do,’ said Lou. Liz said it was windy, and then that it 
was cold, and then that it was a long walk to Wigfield ; 
finally, they both proposed that we should go some 
other day. 

‘Very well; then suppose we give it up, Graham?’ 

‘ With all my heart,’ said Tom, idly. 

‘ W e’ll go with you in the afternoon,’ Liz promised. 

‘ I don’t see how you can, as the Marchioness is com- 
ing to call, and we know it,’ said Mrs. Henfrey. 

‘Ah, yes,’ said Valentine to me, ‘she is coming to 
call, so you had better put your war paint on, and that 
best satin petticoat of yours that 1 like. She is made 
much of in these parts, I can tell ycu, for she is the only 
great lady we have.’ 

‘ She is not coming to call on me,’ I answered ; ‘ so 
what does it signify ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, she is,’ said Mr. Brandon ; ‘ I met her on 
Saturday, and she said so. It seems that, three years 
ago, your uncle was up the Nile.’ 

‘Yes,’ answered Tom, ‘so far the narrative is his* 
torical. Anything she may have added to that is proba^- 
bly not so.’ 

‘Very probably, indeed,’ said St. George. ‘I have 
not formed any notion as to what really occurred, 
though I have heard the story before. Perhaps their 
old yacht, knowing she could not possibly hang together 
another day, sagaciously ran herself on to a spit of sand 
of her own accord ; and whether there was a leak so 
large in her keel, that three crocodiles, who had been 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


^71 


crying all the morning, walked in, and, sniffing loudly, 
began to search for pocket-handkerchiefs, or whether 
any of the more ordinary events of yacht life took 
place, I cannot undertake to say; but I know the 
Marquis was very glad when Mr. Rollin, who was com- 
ing down, took them on board the “Curlew,” and 
brought them to Cairo.’ 

‘ It’s too bad to take ladies to sea,’ said Tom. ‘ My 
sister was wretchedly ill before she became accustomed 
to it.’ 

‘Well, there’s nothing I would like better than a 
voyage,’ said Aunt Christie ; ‘ but I think I would be a 
little frightened in a storm.’ 

‘You would get used to it in time,’ I answered ; ‘but 
it always remains very impressive.’ 

‘ I do not feel it more impressive than the utter still 
ness of a night here,’ Tom answered. 

‘ But it is a curious sensation, surely,’ said Mr. Bran- 
don, ‘ to wake and find yourself standing on your head in 
your berth, and your heart beating wrong end upwards ! ’ 

‘ Ay / ’ said the old Aunt, ‘ I wouldn’t like that.’ 

‘ And then you become aware,’ he continued, ‘ that, if 
you could see it, the bowsprit must be sticking straight 
up into the sky ; in fact, that the ship is “ sitting up on 
end,” as old women say, and, like a dog, is making a 
point at some star. But while you’re thinking about that, 
suddenly she shakes herselt^ and rolls so that you won- 
der she doesn’t roll quite over ; and then she gives a 
spring and appears to shy, so that you feel as if you 
must call out “Wo, there!” as to a horse; and then, 
without more ado, she begins to root with her bowsprit 
into the very body of the sea, as if she never could be 
easy again unless she could find the bottom of it.’ 

‘Well,’ said Aunt Christie, beguiled for the moment 
into a belief that this was a fair description of life at sea, 
‘ it’s no wonder at all, then, that the poor Marchioness 
did not like it.’ 

‘No,’ said Valentine to me; ‘but, as I said before, 
you’d better put on some of your best things, for I shali 
naturally wish you to look well.’ 


872 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


They all, Tom included, looked surprised at this 
speech. I knew Prentice was at the bottom cf it. 

‘How engaging of you! ’ I answered, blandly. ‘ You 
will have a clean pinafore on, yourself, no doubt ; and 1 
suppose you will expect me to give you a new rattle in re- 
turn for your solicitude about me. I will, if I can get one 
for a penny, for I am rather tired of your present rattle.’ 

This ought to have been a wittier retort, for nothing 
I ever said was so much laughed at. They were always 
deliglited when I managed to snub Valentine, but on 
this occasion Aunt Christie spoilt all b} shaking her 
finger at him and saying, ‘ Ay, laddie, you’ve met with 
your match now ; you’ve met with your match.’ 

‘That is exactly my own opinion,’ he replied, with 
emphasis ; ‘if we didn’t fight so over our Greek we 
might be taken for a pair of intellectual young turtle- 
doves.’ 

‘ You’d better look out,’ exclaimed Lou suddenly, and 
Valentine instantly put his arm through mine. 

‘ Bless you,’ he said, ‘ we won’t be parted, we’ll go into 
exile together, like a pair of sleeve-links. Lay on, Mac- 
duff!’ 

I do not suppose any special personal punishment had 
been intended by his brother ; besides, the window was 
shut, and as he had linked his arm into mine, nothing 
could be done, and he triumphed. 

‘Well, I never expected to see ye let the Qubit 
get the better of ye so, St. George,’ exclaimed Aunt 
Christie ; and again something was said about wasting 
the morning when it was so fine, and the walk to Wig- 
field was so beautiful. 

‘ Then, why can’t you go without us, dear ? ’ said Lou, 
addressing her brother. 

Mr. Brandon replied that it suited him to stay, and 
that he thought a little Greek would be good for his 
constitution. Accordingly he joined us; but though he 
could help Valentine far better than I could, he was not 
half so strict as I had been ; and besides that, consider- 
ing us both as his pupils, he bestowed as much pains on 
my translation as on his, and sometimes laughed out- 


OFF YEE SKELLIOS. 


373 


right when I read, declaring that to hear a girl cooing 
out timt manly tongue was as droll as it was delightful. 
After luncheon we had to wait a little while for the pro- 
posed call, and when it had been paid, Mrs. Henfrey 
said Lou must go out with her in the carriage and pay 
a few visits. Aunt Christie and I both begged off, and 
as Liz found some fresh excuse for not going to Wig- 
field, we took a walk in the shrubbery instead, and in 
the wood ; Mr. Brandon going with us and saying he 
should ride over to Wigfield at five o’clock, stay half 
an hour, and get back again in time for dinner. He and 
Tom were both in highly genial humor ; Tom and Liz, 
without caring in the least for one another, were getting 
quite familiar and intimate ; she informing him what 
a comfort he was to them. ‘ When you are not here, 
St. George is always getting away, either to see Miss 
Bmithwaite or that blessed Dick ! ’ 

‘ What’s Dick ? ’ said Tom, pretending to be jealous ; 
‘he can’t argue with Dick. What does he find in 
Dick’s society, I should like to know?’ 

W e were crashing down the slope at a good pace, for 
as it did not suit us to walk in even paths, they were 
taking us into the wood. Tom had Liz on his arm, and 
Mr. Brandon had Aunt Christie and me. 

‘ Is there anything else you would like to know ? ’ 
said Aunt Christie over her shoulder, to Tom. 

‘Yes, I should like to know why you all call him St 
George.’ 

‘ Why, Dick’s at the bottom of that too,’ said Liz. 

‘ No ! ’ exclaimed both she and Mr. Brandon together, 
as we sat down and Aunt Christie lifted up her hand 
— a usual habit of hers, when she was going to speak : 
‘We cannot possibly stand that story,’ Liz went on; 
‘ you would make it last half an hour.’ 

Tom took out his watch. ‘ How long would it take 
you to tell it ? ’ he said gravely to Mr. Brandon. 

‘ I think I could polish it off in about forty seconds,’ 
he answered. 

‘ Let him try then, — let him try,’ Aunt Christie 
said ; ‘ I’m sure my stories are very interesting, and 


374 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


Rome of them a great deal more to your ciedit than 
any of your present goings on.’ 

‘ Now then,’ said Tom, with his watch still in his 
hand — ‘ off ! ’ 

‘ I never promised to tell it at all.’ 

‘You’ve lost two seconds.’ 

‘Well, then, my dear young father’s crest was a 
dragon, and I had a mug which had been his — a silver 
mug — with this crest on it, and out of it I used to 
drink the small beer of my childhood. Dick, then 
about eight years old, once, when his parents came to 
lunch, and brought him with them, was taken up-stairs 
to dine with us in our nursery, and as I tilted up my 
mug to drink, he noticed that the dragon’s tongue was 
out ! and he managed to convey some notion to my 
mind that the circumstance was ignominious ; he would 
have it that my dragon was putting out his tongue at 
me. So after wrangling all dinner-time about this, we 
fought under the table with fisticuffs. As soon as we 
had finished — How does the time get on?’ 

‘ Thirty seconds ! ’ 

‘ Dick was remarkably pugnacious, and when we met 
— which was rather often — we always fought, either 
about that, or something else, till my mother found it 
out, and told me various stories about St. George, and 
I began to make a kind of hero of him in my mind. 
She comforted me as regarded the dragon’s tongue, 
by telling me what a wicked beast he was. He did that 
to defy St. George, she said — ’ 

‘ Time’s up ! ’ 

‘ All right, I’ve told you quite enough.’ 

‘ I’ll take ten more seconds and finish it,’ said Liz ; 
‘ so mamma used to call him her little St. George. But 
Dick and Giles fought almost every holida3\ It was 
not all malice, 3 ou know, but partl}^ from native pug- 
nacitjs and partl3’ to see which was stronger. Till 
the families quarrelled they were always at daggers 
drawn, and then to show their perversit}^, I suppose, 
Dick declared he didn’t see what there was to contend 
about — took St. George’s part most vehementlj’ — 


OFF THE SKELLiaS. 


375 


iaid there was no fellow in the neighborhood that was 
such a dear friend of his, and they’ve been as intimate 
as possible ever since.’ 

‘A minute and five seconds in all,’ said Tom. 

‘And very badly told,’ said Aunt Christie; ‘as I tell 
it I can assure you it’s a very pretty, I may say an affect- 
ing story, and how his mother talked to him, and what 
he said — ho was a dear little fellow, that he was.’ 

‘But it’s very awkward for a man of my modest 
nature to have your stories told to his face,’ said St. 
George, laughing, and she, with a real look of disap- 
pointment, said, it was too cold to sit out of doors. I 
was full of ruth to think she was cut short in her tales, 
and as I took off my gloves to tie her veil, which was 
coming off, I said, ‘Never mind. Aunt Christie, tell 
some of your stories to me when none of them are by 
to interfere ; you shall tell me this very story if you 
like, every bit of it, particularly what the mother said, 
for evidently those must have been prophetic words.’ 

She gave me a pleased smile, as she rose, and Mr. 
Brandon took my hand, as I thought, to help me up, 
instead of which, to my great surprise, he stooped and 
kissed it in the most open manner possible. 

Aunt Christie was standing by, looking down upon 
us, so that she must have seen this, but she did not 
betray the least surprise. Tom and Liz were already 
plunging up the slope together, among deep layers of 
dead leaves, and for some time nothing was said ; at 
length he broke silence, by saying something to me 
about Miss Braithwaite. 

He was so sorry we had not met ; he thought she 
would like to see me. 

I replied : ‘ Perhaps, then, she will come and call on 
me in a day or two/ and he looked, I thought, just a 
little surprised, and walked by me in silence till I made 
some remark about the gathering damp, when, instead 
of answering, he began to talk of his regard for her, in 
short, of his great affection. She was excellent, it 
appeared, she was remarkable, she was delightful. He 
broke off this eulogy with a sudden start. 


376 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


‘ W ell, if I mean to go at all I must go now. Good 
bye.’ 

‘ Shall we not see you at dinner, then ? ’ I asked. 

‘ Oh yes, certainly ; ’ he had passed through the little 
narrow gate that led into the shrubbery, and before he 
let me follow him he detained me a few minutes in 
conversation, till Tom and Liz came up by another 
path. 

‘ It gets cold and damp,’ said Liz,‘ ‘ we ought to be 
in;’ whereupon he roused himself, and saying once 
more, ‘Well, if I mean to go at all, I must not stay 
any longer,’ he and Tom dashing through the shrubs 
together, made off to the stables. 

I found they were still in one another’s company 
when going up to my own room afterwards, I saw them 
riding down the Wigfield road together, to Wigfield 
Grange, Mr. Braithwaite’s house ; and I wondered, as 
I had done several times before, at the persevering 
manner in which these two spirits kept close to- 
gether, though they had never seemed to be so very 
congenial. 

If Mr. Brandon came into the room, Tom was sure 
to be in his wake, and if Tom took himself off, Mr. 
Brandon’s attention seemed to be excited; he grew 
restless, and shortly followed him. 

It was not till just before dinner was announced 
that they walked into the drawing-room. Tom looked 
and behaved exactly as usual, but on Mr. Brandon 
such a change had fallen that it was impossible not to 
notice it. All dinner-time he never once spoke, except- 
ing in his capacity of carver, and in the evening when 
he joined us, he stood on the rug so lost in cogitation 
that he was quite unconscious of the inquiring looks 
w^hich passed from one to the other. 

‘ I say,’ observed Valentine to me, ‘ Giles is quite out 
of sorts since he came fi*om Wigfield. What’s the row, 
I wonder?’ 

I had my own theory, and though I felt a kind of 
shame in admitting it, there was a heartache too. I 
had known and felt that for the last few days, when- 


OFF THE SKFLLIOS. 


37 ' 


f»ver 1 spoke, he had turned his head instinctively to 
listen. That was over, he had left us at the gate, as if 
he grudged the time that was to be spent at Wigfield ; 
he had come back and forgotten that grudge. Had 
Miss Dorinda slid anything to him, or had the mere 
sight of her fragile form blotted everything else out of 
his mind and memory. 

Tom was more talkative than usual; he seemed to 
observe Mr. Brandon’s remarkable taciturnity, and to 
be doing all he could to make up for it ; he asked Lou 
to play, and he talked to Mrs. Henfrey. 

I felt that a sort of chill and restraint had fallen on 
us, and when Mrs. Henfrey observed that the ther- 
mometer had gone down, and there was a sprinkling 
of hoar-frost on the ground, I chose to consider that 
these sensations were partly owing to the weather. 

‘ Where is papa?’ said Liz to Valentine. 

‘ Asleep in the dining-room.’ 

‘ How bad that is for him ; suppose we go and fetch 
him up. Will you come too, Dorothea ? ’ 

I was very glad of the proposal, and went with her, 
Valentine following ; he opened the dining-room door, 
the lamp had been turned down, and in his easy chair 
before the glowing embers of the fire, sat the beautiful 
old man dozing at his ease. 

He woke almost instantly, — ‘ What, what — ah, ay, 
the cliildren — what is it, my boy ? do you want me ? ’ 
‘No, papa, but you must not sleep here.’ 

‘ No, no, lazy old man ; is that Miss Graham ? ’ 

‘Yes, you’ll come up-stairs, won’t you ? ’ 

‘Not yet, my boy; draw the sofa round there; and 
BO Giles has been to Wigfield ? ’ 

He got up from his easy chair, and exchanged it for 
the sofa, making us sit on it beside him. 

‘I wish that Wigfield was further,’ he continued; 
‘ there is always some trouble or other when he goes 
there. Child, my foot’s asleep.’ 

Liz sat down at his feet, and taking one on her knee, 
began to rub it, while he, passing his band over my 
hair, said — 


878 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


‘ And so you must needs come down, too, and see 
what the old man was about ? ’ 

‘ Liz said I might come.’ 

‘ You might ! Yes, my sweet, you may always corm , 
what I don’t wish is that you should go,^ 

Delightful he was to every one, and nobody ever 
seemed to be in his way. He was so accustomed to 
the caresses of the youn'g, that when I took his hand 
between mine to warm it, he received the attention as 
a natural and common one, only remarking that it 
always made him chilly to go to sleep after dinner. 

So we sat there chatting in the firelight about all 
sorts of things till the door was suddenly opened, and 
in marched Mr. Brandon. 

‘Well, Giles, you see I am holding a levee down 
here ; did you think I was asleep ? ’ 

Mr. Brandon, I could not help thinking, was some- 
what vexed when he saw us ; and when Liz and Valen- 
tine began to talk to him he answered shortly, and 
walked about the room with a sort of restless im- 
patience. 

‘ Giles,’ said his step-father, ‘ I wish you would sit 
down.’ 

Giles took a little wicker chair, and bringing it near 
the sofa, sat down, but could not be quiet long; he 
soon rose, and standing with his back to the fire, made 
a kind of occupation of the chair, and pressed a foot 
on the spell, or a knee on the seat, to test its strength. 
I knew as well as if he had told me so, that he wanted 
to talk to Mr. Mortimer, but no one else seemed to see 
it, and he sighed once or twice, with such restless im- 
patience, that it pained me to hear him. 

‘ Giles,’ said Valentine, ‘ you were talking about sing- 
ing last night, and what do you think Miss Graham 
says, — why, that she never once heard you sing, and 
did not know you could.’ 

‘ That is not odd ; she has only been here a week.’ 

‘ I have often said that I wished you girls would 
learn to accompany your brother,’ said Mr. Mortimer 
to Liz. 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


379 


‘We can’t, papa, we have often tried, but we always 
put him out. Nobody does him justice in that way 
out Miss Dorinda.’ 

Mr. Mortimer uttered a little grunt on hearing this. 

‘ But I like those simple things best, which want no 
acX5ompaniment,’ she continued. 

‘ I hate trash,’ said Mr. Brandon, decidedly. 

‘ Sing us something now, St. George.’ 

Mr Brandon excused himself, and I was so conscious 
that the proposal was utterly distasteful to him, and 
that, though he was concealing it as well as he could, 
he was out of spirits and exceedingly out of temper, 
that I did not venture to add my voice to the general 
request 

‘ I have not heard him sing for a fortnight,’ observed 
Mr. Mortimer, ‘ and it is a treat that I seldom ask for.’ 
The chair continued to be put, as it w^re, through its 
paces under the hands of Giles; but he looked hurt, 
and when Mr. Mortimer added, ‘ and I have said more 
than once that I should like to hear that French song 
again that he sung at the Wilsons’, he said quickly, ‘ So 
be it, then,’ and with a slight gesture of impatience, and 
no change of attitude, he instantly began. 

Valentine often repeated those verses afterwards, or 
I should not have remembered them, so completely did 
the song and the manner of it take me by surprise. I 
had not expected anything particular, was not pre- 
pared, and it made the color flush to my face and the 
tears into my eyes ; it was not a powerful voice, or 
rather, being so near to us, he did not bring it out; it 
was not very clear, a-t least not then, but there was 
something in it that I felt I should never forget — that 
I almost trembled at, so great was its eflect on me. 

Some man, it seemed, from dusty Paris, had plunged 
into the depths of Normandy, and there he had sat by 
the wood-fire of a farm-house, and fallen in love with 
its mistress ; but he went away from her, as it seemed| 
almost directly, and the ballad proceeded : — 

Mon seul beau jour a dft fimr, 

Finir d^s son aurore; 


380 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


Maw pour moi cedoux souvenir 
Est du bofiheur encore. 

En fermant les yeux je revois 
L’(^clos plein de lumi^re, 

La liaie en fleur, le petit bois, 

La fenne — et la fermi^re. 

ffe betrayed hia reluctance to sing throughoutj but 
»7eut to the end of the ballad : — 

C’est la qu’un jour je vins m’asseoir 
Les pieds Wanes de poussi^re ; 

Un jour — puis en marche et bonsoir 
La fenne — et la fermi^re. 

When he had finished no one spoke, no one even 
said, ‘ Thank you.’ Dark as it was, surprise was evi- 
dent, something had struck all the listeners. As for 
me the‘ echo of that song tyrannized over me, .and I 
not only made up my mind fully that Miss Braithwaite 
must be at the bottom of it, but also that he had been 
alarmed at some change for the worse in her health, for 
I had heard her spoken of as very delicate and fragile. 

But how easily people may be mistaken ! The very 
next morning, as Valentine and I sat plodding together 
over our Greek, while Liz and Lou were entertaining 
some morning visitors, and Tom and Mr. Brandon were 
together in the peculiar domain of the latter, we heard 
a remarkable rumble in the hall which sounded like the 
rolling of wheels. 

‘Whew!’ exclaimed Valentine, ‘here’s the fair 
Dorinda ! ’ 

‘ Where ? ’ I exclaimed, looking out of the window. 

‘ Why, in the hall, to be sure.’ 

Before I could ask what he meant, the door was 
slowly opened, and a lady was pushed in who was 
seated in a large bath-chair; she was a very tall, stout 
lady, and she almost filled the chair, which she guided 
by means of a little wheel in front, while a perspiring 
youth propelled her at the back. She must have been 
a great weight ! 

Valentine spoke to her, and helped to guide her chair 
into a place from whence she could see the whole room, 
her servant then withdrew, and she said — 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


381 

Is that Miss Graham ; V alentine, will you introduce 
her to me ? ’ 

It was a pleasant voice that spoke, and I looked her 
in the face for the first time. She seemed to be about 
fifty years old, and was evidently quite a cripple; but 
her face was charming with cheerfulness, and her large, 
handsome features were quite free from any expression 
of pain or ill-health. Valentine did as he was desired. 
There was no mistake, this was Miss Dorinda Braith- 
waite, and I was sc much amazed, that for a few 
minutes I could hardly answer her polite expressions 
of pleasure at making my acquaintance. She seemed 
to observe my confusion, and to be willing to give me 
time to recover. What she thought was the cause of 
it I could not tell ; but I did my best to look and move 
as if I was not intensely surprised ; though of course 
I was, and when, after talking to Valentine for some 
time, she again addressed me, I could behave like other 
people. 

Mr. Brandon, Tom, and Lou presently entered. Lou 
kissed Miss Braithwaite, so did Mr. Brandon as com- 
posedly as if it was a matter of course. Her charming 
face dghted up with pleasure as she spoke to him, her 
fondness for him was most evident ; but she seemed to 
treat; him, I observed, as quite a young man, almost, in 
fact, as a mother might treat her son, and she had not 
been ten minutes in the room before I found out why 
Valentine had spoken of her as such a very excellent 
person. Without one atom of aflTectation she made it 
perceptible to us, or, rather, it became perceptible to us, 
‘ that God was in all her thoughts^ She had a curious 
way, too, of talking about herself, as if it was just as 
agreeable to her to be a prisoner in that chair as it 
could be to us to walk, as if, being the will of God, it 
must, of course, be all right, and consequently most 
desirable, most pleasant. 

I have known some people who, while they talked, 
seemed to go up to God; pierce some high majestio 
deeps, and reach towards what, in ordinary hours, is to 
us His illimitable absence. There was nothing of that 


382 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


sort here. It seemed rather that she had brought God 
down ; God was come among us, and some of us were 
grateful and glad. 

I don’t know how she managed to convey the things 
she made apparent to us. She did not say them in so 
many words ; but she thought them, and her thoughts 
became incidentally evident. She stayed to lunch, was 
heeled up to the table, and had a little sort of shelf 
fixed on to the front of the chair, which served her by 
way of a table. I observed that she had a remarkable 
efiect on Tom. He perceived that what gave a mean- 
ing to her life and satisfied her was real, and was to her 
a glorious possession. He always had taken an intense 
interest in things unseen. Here was some one who 
evidently came a good deal in contact with them, and 
felt, concerning that difficult and tremendous thing, 
religion, not as if it was some hard thing that one 
might do, but some high thing that one might attain. 

She stayed about two hours, and Valentine all the 
time was not only silent, but crest-fallen and oppressed. 
St. George, on the contrary, though still very diflTerent 
from his usual self, appeared to feel her conversation 
comforting and elevating to his spirits, — for the gloom 
which had hung about him since the last evening began 
to fade by degrees, and at last he too joined in this talk, 
but not without great reserve, and more, as it seemed, 
to explain her remarks, than to advance any thought 
of his own. 

When she said she must go, St. George and the 
Oubit between them pushed and pulled her great chair 
into the hall ; most of the party went with her, Tom to 
carry her parasol, Liz and Mrs. Henfrey with some 
books that she had borrowed. Valentine presently re- 
turned, and shutting the door of the dining-room in 
which Aunt Christie and I still remained, he performed 
a kind of war-dance of triumph and ecstasy round the 
table. 

‘She’s ruined my prospects,’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s 
made me give it all up. I shall tell St. George it’s n# 
go, and then I hope she’ll be happy.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


383 


*Ye bad boy — O ye bad fellow,’ said Aunt Christie, 
who, I think, was a little relieved herself that this visit 
was over, ‘ are ye glad to get rid of that blessed saint ? 
Look there, and be ashamed of yourself’ 

We both looked out where she indicated. There 
was Tom, with his sailor’s gait, walking beside her 
chair. Strange curiosity ! His eyes while he listened 
had almost seemed to lighten, so vivid was the flash 
that came with those thoughts that had questioned of 
hei’. There was often a strange awe in his soul which 
was very little connected with either fear or love ; but 
O how glad he would have been of any glimpse or any 
echo coming from behind the veil ! 

St. George walked on the other side, guiding the 
chair with his hand, and when they came to the gate 
of the drive, which led to the road, they both took 
leave of her, then they vaulted over a little fence and 
began to walk across the fields. 

‘ They are going to overhaul John Mortimer again,’ 
said Valentine. ‘I heard St. George asking Graham 
what he would do, and where he would go, and he 
answered that he would rather stop at home. St. 
George said, “ Ab, you wouldrUt ; ” and Graham actually 
gave in, and said, if he must go anywhere he would go 
there. But they don’t care so much, I know, about 
their argument now, because they’ve seen Uncle Augus- 
tus, and he does not agree with John in those views of 
his, you know, as to the bad effects of a token coinage, 
and the moment they found that the two experts were 
on opposite sides, they left off trying to make it out.’ 

So they were gone, and gone for the whole evening ; 
gone, also, against Tom’s wish and at Mr. Brandon’s 
will and pleasure. Very odd indeed, but not so odd as 
some other things. I went up to my room before we 
took our walk, and began to think all this over. Miss 
Dorinda Braithwaite, the girl with the heavenly counte- 
nance! I had seen her; she was a helpless cripple in a 
chair, and old enough to be my mother. 

Did that really matter, or could it ever be likely to 
matter to me? I hardly knew, it was all so full of con- 


:^84 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


tradiction ; but Tom had never talked privately to me 
but once since our arrival; this was a few days ago, 
and the subject was his pleasure at that early conversa- 
tion in which I had ‘ let it appear that I had forgotten 
the color of Brandon’s eyes! You cannot take the 
compliments, attentions, or even the apparent devotion 
of men too lightly,’ said my Mentor; ‘depend on it, 
they never mean anything whatever^ unless they ask 
you ])oint blank to marry them as soon as may be.’ 

‘Very well,’ I answered, ‘I shall not forget what you 
say.’ 

So I thought of it in my room, and decided that for 
the present I would insist upon it, that nothing meant 
anything. 

We had plenty of amusement and talk that night, 
and music. It was very cold, and we did not sit up till 
the return of Tom and St. George ; but after I retired 
to my room and dismissed Mrs. Brand, whom I had 
soon done with, I heard their voices in the next room 
as I sat with my feet on the fender indulging in a 
pleasant reverie. 

Tom’s room was next to mine ; the two fireplaces 
were back to back, and I had often noticed that Mr. 
Brandon and he used to talk together there at night 
before the former retired to his own room. 

This evening was very windy and chill. They evi- 
dently had a fire, for I could hear them knocking the 
logs about. I also heard their voices, for they were 
talking in far louder tones than usual, and though 
Tom’s soft voice was indistinct, Mr. Brandon’s answers 
were so impressively clear that I was afi*aid I should 
soon hear the words, and as soon as I could I retired 
to bed, which was at the further side of the room ; but 
even with my head upon the pillow I heard all the 
tones, though not the words, of a long argument. Mr. 
Brandon evidently had the best of this argument, and 
he also had the poker, for he emphasized his remarks 
with most energetic thrusts at the fire. 

The imperative mood is used ‘ for commanding, ex- 
horting, entreating, and permitting.’ Mr. Brandon, to 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


6S5 


judge by his voice, put it through all its capabilities, 
and Tom sank to silence till, at the end of a long 
harangue, a question seemed to be asked, and Tom 
answered. Then I heard words. 

‘ You won’t ? ’ asked in a tone of sudden astonishment 
and anger. 

‘No, 1 won’t.’ 

‘ Then I say you will.’ 

The harangue began again; it was vehement, tUo 
answers grew short. The harangue rose to eloquence, 
persuasion, entreaty; the answers grew faint. At last 
both voices became gentle and amicable. Whatever 
the dispute had been it was over, and not without some 
curiosity I heard Mr. Brandon close the door and steal 
softly up~stairs to his own domain. 

I was sure they had been quarrelling, and the next 
morning when I came down, I watched for their apj^ear- 
ance that I might see how they accosted each other. 

They came in together, and fully equipped for a 
journey. 

‘ Going out before breakfast ? ’ exclaimed Mrs. Ilen- 
frey. 

‘No, we breakfasted an hour ago,’ replied Mr. Bran- 
don, coolly. ‘We are going to run up to town for — 
for a week or a fortnight.’ 

I looked at Tom in surprise; he did not .eem at all 
eager for the journey, but was quiet and gentle. He 
kissed me and was saying ‘ Good-bye,’ when I exclaimed 
in a low tone, ‘ Dear Tom, are you going to leave me 
here by myself? ’ 

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and said, drearily, that 
Brandon was bent on being off; he never saw such a 
lestless fellow, he hated stopping at home. 

‘ Come, old fellow,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘ we shah be 
late for the train, and my dog-cart is brought round.’ 

He took my hand in his, and said something about 
his regret at leaving home when I was in it, and then 
be marched off after Tom. They got into the dog-cart 
and drove away. 

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Mortimer, when they w re gone, and 


386 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


we were seated at breakfast, ‘ it was dull here for yoTing 
Graham, very dull. Not used to a country life. No, 
they’ll get on better in town.’ 

‘ He certainly seems as if he had taken out a patent 
for holding his tongue,’ observed Valentine. 

The sisters frowned at him and glanced at me. Mr. 
Mortimer went on — 

‘ Giles wanted to be off yesterday morning, and came 
down to consult me about it the night before ; but I 
reminded him of an engagement he had, and so they 
agreed to stay.’ He spoke with great deliberation and 
composure. 

I answered, feeling hurt that my brother should be 
BO misunderstood, and also feeling anything but pleased 
with Mr. Brandon — 

‘I am sure that Tom was very w'ell content to be 
here ; I think he went to please Mr. Brandon.’ 

‘Well,’ said Mr. Mortimer, calmly, ‘perhaps he did, 
my dear ; perhaps he did. St. George may have had 
reasons for wishing to go out.’ 

‘O yes, certainly.’ 

‘And if so, he could hardly leave his friend behind, 
could he ? For my part, when he proposed the trip, I 
said, “ Go, by all means.” ’ 

It was most evident to my mind that this journey 
was not of Tom’s contriving, and that though the 
family supposed it to be done to please him, it was 
really done at Mr. Brandon’s will and pleasure. I said 
no more, but when after breakfast 1 sat waiting in the 
morning-room till Valentine came in to do his Greek, I 
felt that all my self-command was needed to conceal 
my extreme annoyance, surprise, and even shame. 

What could this be for ? why was he so very anxious 
all on a sudden to get away ? I said to myself that I 
now knew he had been flirting with me, but he had not 
been obliged to go into it unless he liked. Why, then, 
in such a hurry to escape ? did he think I had shown 
too much pleasure in his society, that it behooved him 
to take himself out of my way? I did not know what 
to think, but I felt that he had done very wrong to drag 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


387 


Tom from this quiet country place, where he had really 
been cheerful and pleased, and take him within two or 
three hours of Southampton, a place I never liked to 
think of his having anything to do with. 

Enter Valentine. 

‘ I’m so glad St. George is gone ! ’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because now I shall have you all to myself. I 
wonder what he is going to do with your brother.’ 

‘You talk of Tom as if he was a child. I do not 
see myself how he could stop any longer here when 
your brother showed him so plainly that he didn’t 
wish it.’ 

‘Well, you must admit that it was very heavy work 
amusing him here ! There was nothing for him to do 
that he cared for. Dear me, what a sigh ! I say — ^ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘If you think I am going to call you Miss Graham 
all my life, you are mistaken. The girls don’t. So aa 
you have no objection^ I shall call you D. ; that simple 
initial escapes the formality that I dislike, and is more 
distant than Dorothea. If I am encouraged, I shall 
sometimes add a simple expression of regard to show 
my kind feelings towards you.’ 

‘ I shall not encourage you.’ 

‘ Aunt Cnristie’s going away to-day, so if you don’t 
keep friends with me you will be very dull ; she is 
never so well pleased as to be here.’ 

‘ I love Aunt Christie, but though she is going I shall 
not encourage you.’ 

‘No; I believe if you had as many names as the 
Sniilex simulata^ you would like to be called by tliem 
all. I saw a plant labelled once for the benefit of the 
ignorant public in Kensington Gardens — Smilex sim- 
ulata — the Simulated Sniilax, a Smilaceous plant. 
What do you think it was ? why, a wallflower ! ’ 

‘ I consider you to be a kind of literary rag-bag full 
of scraps of information. I do not care for the illus- 
tration, and I shall at present not allow you to cal] 
me D.’ 


388 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


‘ I consider you to be oppressively clever. I don% 
like you.’ 

‘ And I wish to begin the reading — ^ 

‘ So we will, D., my dear.’ 

From that time he always insisted on calling me ‘ D., 
my dear,’ and at last I tired of telling him not, and 
became accustomed to the appellation. Indeed, after 
that first day, he afforded almost my whole amusement, 
and devoted himself to me with a simple naivete which 
was quite consistent with a good deal of plain speaking. 
He also afforded me occupation in helping him with 
his studies ; but for this salutary tie I should have had 
nothing to do, for a visitor arrived to whom Liz and Lou 
devoted much of their attention, so much that I could 
not but wonder what they found to like or to admire. 
This visitor was a Captain Walker of the — Fusiliers, 
a dull man, silent to a degree, and who when he did 
talk seemed to have but one idea — his brother, his 
twin brother who had married their sister Emily. Of 
his brother he could talk a little when other people 
were present; but when he was alone with Liz and 
Lou I used to think he must have talked of something 
else, for I observed several times that on my entrance 
there was a sudden silence, and Lou, by whom he was 
sitting, would look a little flushed, while Liz was gen- 
erally stationed with her back to them, writing in a 
window. 

It was about this time I think that a certain news- 
paper squib appeared, which caused much anguish to 
Mr. Mortimer, but which Valentine, though angry at it, 
could not help quoting with great glee when we were 
alone. I do not remember it all, but the precious 
effusion began thus : — 


* Brandon of WigfieW, we do you to wit, 

That to lecture the masses you’re wholly unfit, 
Worthy, but weak Mr. Brandon I 
You haven’t a leg to stand on, 

“ Don’t cheer me,” you sighed, 

“ Us weren’t going,” they cried. 

And they hissed you instead, Mr. Brandoa« 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


889 


‘ Who are 3’'ou, Sir, that argies and wrangles ? 

Who are j^ou, Sir, that talk about mangles, 

And suds, and the starching that foliers, 

As if you got up yer own collars, 

And kittles, and pots, you young sinner. 

As if you could cook your own dinner. 

Or sew on one blessed pearl button, 

Or hash a cold shoulder of mutton ? 

Worth}”, but weak Mr. Brandon,* &c. 

I was secretly enraged at this squib, and sympathized 
with Mr. Mortimer. I even ventured once when we 
were alone to express this sympathy, and the dear old 
[man received it with evident pleasure; but whenever 
his father was out of hearing Valentine’s cr'icV^d voios 
might be heard crowing out — 

‘ Worthy, but weak Mr. Brandon, 

You hav«ii*t a leg to stand on.* 


89U 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

* l*m young and strong, my Marion ; 

None dance like me on the green; 

And gin ye forsake me, Marion, 

I’ll e’en draw up with Jean.* 

I DID not now sit in the morning-room, for I could 
not find in my heart to make Lou uncomfortable, 
and I observed that my proposal to Mrs. Henfrey 
that Valentine an^ I should read in the drawing-room 
with her was met with such ready willingness, that I 
could not but suppose she wished Captain Walker to 
have every opportunity for making himself agreeable. 

After we had read, we took a walk or a drive ; in- 
deed, we were thrown together almost all day long, 
and I was so keenly aware of the folly I should com- 
mit if I indulged any dream with respect to Mr. Bran- 
don, that I tried earnestly to write and walk, to talk 
and practise as much as I could, and starve him out of 
my thoughts by occupying myself with other things. 

He had deliberately gone away in the very midst of 
his apparent interest about me. It was not to please 
Tom, that I had plainly seen ; and there had been no 
talk of business. 

‘Well,’ said Valentine, one day when we set out for 
our walk, ‘I consider that Giles is in for a thousand 
pounds.’ 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Oh, don’t you know that he gave Emily that sum 
when she was married, and promised it to the others ? ’ 

‘ No, I had not heard it.’ 

‘Well, he did; and he is to let me have the same 
sum to put me to college. That’s what gives him so 
much power over me.’ 


OFF TEE 8KELLI08. 


391 


• I did not know he was rich.’ 

‘ He isn’t ; but he has plenty. That, I am bound to 
say, is my pa’s doing. Why, this house belongs to 
Giles.’ 

‘ Indeed ! ’ 

‘Yes; papa was his father’s guardian. His father 
died suddenly, you know, before he was born.’ 

‘ I have heard that.’ 

Sc papa and sister went and fetched poor mamma 
here, and she stayed till after Giles was born; she 
did nothing but cry, and made them so miserable. 
She used to sit, when she got' a little better, under that 
laurustinus tree and nurse Giles, and cry over him. 
Then she said she should be happier if she went to 
her own people in Scotland; so papa took her there, 
and she soon got better, and married Mr. Grant. Well 
then, most of what Mr. Brandon had left became the 
property of his child, and papa was his guardian, and 
managed it so well, that by the time Giles was of age 
his patrimony was nearly doubled. Did you ever hear 
the story of how papa came to marry mamma ? ’ 

‘No. Tell it me.’ 

‘ Why, of course papa and mamma used to correspond 
about Giles, and papa wished him to go to school, and 
there was a kind of coolness between them, because 
papa thought it so silly of mamma to marry again so 
soon. Well, after Mr. Grant had been dead a year, 
there was some business to be settled, and mamma had 
some papers to sign about Giles. But papa had the 
gout and could not go to Scotland, so mamma had to 
come to him, and she left Giles behind, for fear papa 
should want to get him and send him to school. 

‘ She came here in a snow-storm, and papa was very 
cross and grumbling a good deal about his gout. He 
was nearly sixty then, and had been a kind of widowei 
thirty years. When he found that mamma had left 
Giles behind he was very angry. I can’t tell the story 
as well as sister does ; it’s the only one she ever does tell 
well. She was with papa, and when he said, “ Are there 
no possible means, madam, by which I can get that boy 


392 


OFF THE SKELLlijrS. 


into my hands?” mamma said, “I cannot tell what 
means you may have in reserve, but those which you 
have tried at present are quite ineffectual” Sister 
thought they were going to quarrel, so she got out of the 
room as fast as she could ; but when she came in again 
(mamma was always considered a very fascinating per- 
son), she found papa in an excellent temper, and he told 
her he had been talking with Mrs. Grant, and she had 
promised to let him have her son. And so mamma did, 
you know, but she came with him and Liz and Lou and 
Emily also. I have always thought it showed a beauti- 
ful spirit of discernment in my dear mother, that no 
sooner was I born than she perceived my superior merit, 
and showed an open preference for me over all her 
other children. On the other hand, so blind is poor 
human nature, that papa always had a kind of infatua- 
tion in favor of Giles. Papa sent Giles to Trinity, and 
wished him to study law, but he hates the law, and says 
if he marries he shall buy land and go and settle in New 
Zealand. It is a lucky thing for us that papa man- 
aged so well for him, for now Giles always persists that 
we have a claim on his property in consequence.’ 

From day to day Valentine and I cultivated our in- 
timacy. We went together to call on Miss Dorinda, 
we took rides together and went fern-hunting in the 
woods, we studied, we quarrelled, and made it up again. 
We were at first glad to be together for want of other 
society, but by degrees we got used to each other, and 
liked to discuss in company the progress of Captain 
Walker’s wooing, the various croquet parties we went 
to, and the neighbors who came to lunch and to call. 

Once, and only once, Valentine gave himself a holi- 
day from his Greek, and left me all the morning. 
About three o’clock he returned and burst into the 
room, exclaiming that he should not have been so late 
if he had not fallen in with a crowd of people running 
to farmer Coles’, and declaring that one of his ricks 
was on fire. 

‘I ran after them, hoping to see the fun, and hel]) to 
throw water, when Tim Coles, the farmer’s own brother, 


OFF TUB SKELLIOS, 


393 


lagged behind and began to lament and talk about hia 
feelings. Come, Tim,” said I, ‘‘ you block up the 
stile ; let me get over.” “ Ah ! ” said he, “my poor 
brother! blood’s thicker than water.” “So I perceive,” 
said I, “ so much thicker that it won’t run.” Put that 
into the novel; it’s much better than anything you can 
invent yourself. Well, we soon had the fire out. I 
was too late for the train, but though I had to wait for 
the next, I was glad; for Charlotte was there, and 
Prentice; they were waiting for old Tikey to come 
down fi-om some missionary meeting he’d been to. 
We amused ourselves with planting, Charlotte said, 
“ If I were to plant you and what you fi-equently do, 
myself and something indefinite, what would come 
u]) ? ” — but, dear me ! you never can guess anything, 
and, besides, an old salt like you ought not to plant, you 
should fish. If I were to throw myself into the sea 
when you were fishing, what should you catch ? ’ 

‘ An odd fish ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘A flat-fish?’ 

‘No, you crab, but a great sole — a friend ol St. 
George’s used to say that he was all soul — so am I, ex- 
cept my body. Come, I’ll give you another plant. If 
I were to plant the mother of hexameters painted gold- 
color, and what I should like to give you, what would 
come up ? Do you think it would be a bee orchis ? ’ 

‘I consider you a very impertinent boy. Besides, 
they ought to spell.’ 

‘No, they belong to the botanical, not to the educated 
classes. jScene for the novel — “ And here the graceful 
youth, producing a costly ring, and dropping on one 
knee, took her hand and pressed it to his finely-formed 
lips, as was his frequent habit.” ’ 

‘ He did nothing of the kind ! ’ I exclaimed. ‘ How 
dare you ! you never did kiss it, and you never will. 
Do you think I am going to hang my hand over the end 
of the sofa that, as Sairey Gamp says, you “ may put 
your lips to it when so dispoged ” ? ’ 

‘Why, you don’t think I was in earnest, do you? 

17 * 


894 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


exclaimed Valentine, shaking with laughter. ‘Kiss 
your hand, indeed ! I wouldn’t do such a thing on any 
account, I can tell you! No, it was a scene.’ And he 
stuck a little ring on the top of one of his great fin- 
gers, and said, in a more colloquial tone, ‘Just see if 
this fits, will you ? ’ 

‘ Yes, it fits pretty well.” 

‘ It only cost seven-and-sixpence.’ 

‘ And quite enough, too, for it is a rubbishing little 
thing.’ 

‘ W ell, keep it, then, for the present, lest I should 
lose it. And now I am going to tell you a thrilling 
tale, and appeal to all your better feelings.’ 

‘ Do.’ 

‘You must know, then, that the day Giles went 
away, he got up very early indeed ; I heard him, and 
got up too, and went into his room while he was shav- 
ing. I told him I had only five shillings in my pocket, 
and put it to him, “ as a man and a brother,” whether, 
considering the state of his own finances, he had the 
heart to let such a state of things continue. It was 
once his own case — how did he like it ? I asked. The 
wretch answered, “ 0 Vheureux temps quand fetais si 
malheurevjx,!'*'* and went on lathering himself in a way 
that was very unfeeling, considering how late my whis- 
kers are in coming. “ What do you want to buy ? ” 
said Giles. I told him a ring. “ Whew ! ” he answered, 
“ a ring 1 Why can’t you seal your letters with a shil- 
ling? Well, come,” he said, “if you’ll have your 
father’s crest well cut. I’ll give you five pounds.” 
“ What ! ” I answered, “ do you think I am such a muff 
as to want a signet ring? No, I want one for a pres- 
ent.” Well, by that time I had got the five sovereigns. 
“A present!” said Giles, with infinite scorn, “for 
whom ? ” I told him it was for a lady, and instead of 
treating the matter as if it was the most natural thing 
in the world, he laughed in an insulting manner, and 
then turned grave, and desired me not to make myself 
ridiculous by any such foolery ; he wanted to know the 
lady’s name, and said if it was Fanny Wilson, I was 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


395 


most presumptuous; indeed, at my age, it would be 
very impertinent to do such a thing, and that papa 
would be very angry ; he added, D. dear, that if I would 
only wait a couple of years, there really was no saying 
what might happen in that quarter. I said it was not 
Fanny Wilson. “ Has it any reference, then, to that fool- 
ish boy, Prentice? ” he next asked. I could not altogether 
say that it had not. “ Because if it has, and you give 
a ring to Charlotte on purpose to vex him, I shall be 
much disappointed in you,” he said. I said I could not 
divulge the lady’s name, but of course I could not help 
laughing, because he was so grave and so angry, and 
seemed so astonished at my folly; no lady, he said, 
would accept a ring fi-om a mere boy. “ I’ll bet you all 
the money that I don’t spend in the ring,” I said, “ that 
this lady does.” ‘‘ If she does,” said Giles, “ I give you 
five sovereigns more.” Only think of that! I know 
if he had not been in such a hurry that he would have 
made me tell him everything. As it is, D. dear, I can 
make myself happy in the hope of future pelf ; the ring 
is for you.’ 

‘ For me ; how dare you ! ’ 

‘ Yes, for you. It has been my happy privilege already 
to-day to make a fellow-creature perfectly miserable. 
Prentice is now, I have little doubt, tearing his hair.’ 

Upon this I took ofiT the ring and laid it inside the 
fender, where I told him it would remain unless he 
picked it up. Following his brother’s lead, I also said 
that if he had done it in earnest it would have been 
very foolish, but as it was in joke it was impertinent. 

‘ It’s all Prentice’s fault,’ he burst out. ‘He gave 
Charlotte a ring, and I shall never be able to subdue 
him unless I can match him ; his insolence is insufiera- 
ble. You should have seen his jealous misery to-day 
when I said, carelessly, that I was going to buy a ring. 
I liate that fellow — at least so far as is consistent witii 
Christian charity I do. The great joy and desire of his 
life is to do what nobody else can; but if other young 
fellows can be engaged at nineteen, why, there is no 
glory in it, and no grandeur either. However, 1 shall 


396 


OFF THE SEELL1G8. 


pick up the ring, and trust to your better feelings not to 
dej)rive me of all this money.’ 

We argued and bickered some time, and then were 
reconciled ; what, indeed, was the use of quarrelling with 
a youth whose simplicity was so transparent, and whose 
temper was so imperturbable ? 

That night the ring was sent to me with a polite note 
begging my acceptance of it. I returned it the next 
morning before I left my room in a similar note declin- 
ing to receive it. This process was repeated every 
night and every morning till the next Sunday, when, 
as we were walking home from church, Valentine ex- 
claimed, ‘ I say, Prentice has been low all this week, 
and now he despairs. I heard him speak snappishly to 
Charlotte, upon which she replied, “Well, how can 1 
help it if they do correspond!” What an inconsiderate 
world this is ! I would not, on any account, make a 
fellow so miserable as you have made Prentice ! ’ 

‘ Correspond ; what do you mean 1 ’ 

‘ Oh, I remarked to Prentice, in the course of conver- 
satrion, that we corresponded ; so we do ; we write daily. 
That is entirely your doing. I should never have 
tliought of such a thing.’ 

The note with the ring in it was sent to me as usual 
that night, and for the first time Liz was with me. Mrs. 
Brand brought it in with the usual simper and the usual 
message: ‘Mr. Valentine’s compliments, ma’am, and 
wishes you pleasant dreams.’ I told the story to Liz, 
and she was very much amused ; but when I related 
the anecdote about the correspondence, she agreed 
with me that the joke must be put a stop to, and we 
thought the best thing for me to do, in order to efifect 
this, would be to make over the ring to somebody else. 

So I put it on her finger, and the next morning, after 
breakfast, I saw it catch V alentine’s eye, and heard him 
ask her where she got it. 

‘ Oh,’ she replied, carelessly, ‘ it is a thing that Doro- 
thea had no value for, so she gave it to me.’ 

‘Did she,’ said Valentine, with joyful readiness, 
‘ then the game is won at last ! and I’ll write at once 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


397 


for that photographing camera; it only costs SI. 10«., 
and now I can have it. ’ 

Lou and Captain Walker, who were evidently in pos- 
session of the facts, looked on amused, and I asked 
what the ring had to do with the camera. 

Valentine replied that people could not give away 
what did not belong to them, therefore it was evident, 
by my own act, that I acknowledged the ring to be 
mine, 1 had accepted it, and given it away; so he 
should at once appropriate the promised gift from St. 
George. 

It was quite in vain for me to protest and declare ; 
everybody was against me; even Mrs. Henfrey was 
roused to interest, and laughed, and demonstrated to 
me that nothing could be clearer than Valentine’s case. 

The camera Avas ordered that very morning, and we 
— that is Valentine and I — spent from that time forth 
several hours of each day in taking portraits with it. 
Hideous things some of them were ; they had an evil 
grin on their faces, so we tried sitting Avith gravity, and 
then the portraits glared at beholders with desolate 
gloom. At last we grew tired of troubling ourselves as 
to the expression of our faces ; sat carelessly, and some 
very good ones came out, which Ave spoilt by over- 
burning in the sun, or spotted by soaking in a badly- 
mixed bath. 

We set the camera out of doors on the lawn, and 
worked at this neAV trade till at last, when Ave had 
wasted more than half the stock of chemicals, wo 
arrived at tolerable skill, and took Captain Walker’s un- 
meaning face, light eye, and sandy whiskers, so well, 
that even Mrs. Henfrey declared it to be a speaking 
likeness, and arrayed herself in velvet, and came out on 
the lawn to sit. 

Mr. Mortimer encouraged this rage for photography 
on the ground that it Avas §ood for Valentine’s lungs to 
be out so much in the air. 

We took all the friends of the family, and all the 
cottagers. We took the home party in every variety 
of costume and attitude; Ave took Captain Walker lean- 


398 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


iiig on Lou’s chair; he evidently wished to look 
sentimental; she told him to give himself a military 
expression. In his desire to combine the two, he looked 
both foolish and fierce, but Lou was pleased. We then 
took him again in his full dress, with one hand pointing 
at nothing in the distance. His hand came out as big 
as his head, but what of that ? nothing is perfect. 

St. George being away, we adopted the smoking- 
room and used it as a portrait gallery, and stuck the 
pictures all over his walls with pins ; there they hung 
to dry, while we, having stained our fingers of a lively 
brown 's\ith collodion, and having arrived at tolerable 
skill, sighed for new worlds to conquer, and took the 
portrait of every child and monitor in Giles’s own par- 
ticular village school, where he had a select company of 
little girls bringing up on purpose to be sent to Canada. 

We then took portraits in character. Valentine 
bought a pair of moustaches and came out as a brigand, 
I was dressed up as a fish girl, having a basket of mack- 
erel on my head, which we got from the cook. Those 
mackerel stood a long time in the sun, and when they ap- 
peared at table the family declined to partake of them, 
but the photograph was the very best we ever did. 

As time went on, I was the more glad of this occupa- 
tion, for we heard nothing of Tom and Mr. Brandon, 
and as no one but Valentine and myself seemed to 
think this at all singular, I sometimes thought the 
family must know something of their movements; 
though, when I made any remark on Tom’s long 
absence, Mr. Mortimer or Mrs. Henfrey would reply 
to the effect that it was dull in the country. 

One day, when the weather was particularly fine, and 
we, after working hard at our Greek, had taken some 
very successful photographs, Valentine got Liz to lend 
him the ring, and asked me just to put it on while my 
portrait was being taken as a bridesmaid. I declined, 
for I had a suspicion that some farther torture to Pren- 
tice would ensue, but as he made a great point of it, and 
I did not like to yield, I at last went in and ensconced 
myself in the smoking-room. As I stood by the table 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


399 


he shortly entered, bearing the ring on a large silver 
waiter, and following me about the room, laughing and 
begging me to put it on. He walked after me round 
and round the table. I then retreated before him till 
the walk became a run, and I at last darted out of the 
room and ran up-stairs, he striding after, vowing that I 
should wear it. In that style, both out of breath with 
laughing, we ran up one staircase and down another, up 
the gallery and along the wing, the ring rattling and 
dancing on the waiter, and Valentine with cracked 
voice vociferating and quoting; till, stopped at last by 
the window seat, I turned to bay quite breathless, and 
he dropped on one knee and held up his waiter with the 
ring on it still laughing but unable to articulate a word. 

At this precise point of time a door close at hand 
flew open, and somebody coming out, nearly tumbled 
over Valentine’s legs. 

Mr. Mortimer. 

Nothing could exceed the intense surprise of his 
countenance when he saw Valentine’s attitude and the 
ring. In spite of our laughter, it was evident that this 
little tableau had greatly struck him, and after a pause 
of a few seconds, he turned again very quietly into his 
dressing-room and shut the door behind him without 
saying a word. 

Now if he had laughed or spoken, I should not have 
thought so much of it, but that withdrawal and that 
great surprise were very mortifying, because it seemed 
to show that he did not treat the matter as the silly 
joke of a boy. 

Valentine saw this as well as I did, and when he rose 
from his knees he looked very foolish. I was not in the 
best humor possible, and as we walked down-stairs to- 
gether in a very crest-fallen state, Mr. Mortimer’s sur- 
prise being far more disconcerting than Valentine’s joke, 
1 said I thought he had better go and explain the wholf 
thing to his father, make light of it, and expressly sa} 
that the ring was only offered as an ornament to be 
worn in a portrait. 

For once he was out of countenance, and made ex- 


400 


OFF THE SKEL/JGS. 


cuses. His father, he was sure, would ask what he 
meant by it, perhaps would inquire if he meant any- 
thing serious. 

‘ He will say nothing of the kind,’ I answered with 
some asperity; ‘ridiculous ! Even if he did, you would 
only have to speak out and say “ no,” like a boy and a 
Briton.’ 

‘I shan’t say anything of the sort,’ he answers 1, 
sulkily. ‘ I like you better than any girl in the world* 
Charlotte’s nothing to you, nor Jane Wilson either.’ 

I was very angry with him for talking such non- 
sense, but I argued the point with him, and proved by 
force of reasoning, that he and I were friends and could 
be nothing else. He began to yield. I might be right. 
I summed up the facts, and his mind inclined to agree 
with me. Then why had he been so foolish ? He said 
he didn’t exactly know. I supposed it must have been 
out of perversity. He thought it must have been, and, 
recovering his spirits, began to whistle. 

So having by this time returned to the lawn, I sat 
down on a heap of mown grass, and began to harangue 
him on the necessity of his going to explain matters to 
his father, when I suddenly forgot the subject, in conse- 
quence of a circumstance which took place, and did not 
think of it again for at least an hour. 

He was sitting at my feet, playing with the mown 
grass, and blushing, when hearing footsteps close to us 
he looked up and exclaimed, ‘Why, here’s Giles, I de- 
clare!’ and Mr. Brandon, stepping up, shook hands 
with me and looked at me with some attention. 

No wonder, for I was arrayed in white tarlatan, I 
had a crown of flowers on my head, and my upper 
skirt was filled with bunches of lilac, laburnum, and 
peonies. Captain Walker had taken great pains to 
persuade Lou to be taken dressed as a bride, while Liz 
and I strewed flowers before her in the character of 
bridesmaids. At the last moment, when all seemed 
propitious, Lou had failed the poor man, but Liz and I, 
determined not to have the trouble of dressing for 
nothing, intended to be taken without her. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 401 

‘Oh, Mr. Brandon.’ I exclaimed, ‘you are come 
home ! Where is Tom ? is he up in his room ? ’ 

‘No,’ he answered cheerfully, and as if he wished me 
to think his announcement a commonplace one, but 
could not quite manage it. ‘ I left him behind with 
the Captain. He sent his love to you. We only spent 
four days in town, and I have been cruising about with 
them ever since. They put me ashore yesterday at 
Gosport.’ 

‘ He is not ill ? ’ 

‘No — no, certainly not; I never saw him looking 
better, nor the Captain either.’ 

I had already stayed at Mr. Mortimer’s house nearly 
tl e whole of the month for which we had been in- 
vited. Tom, I could not but think, was treating him 
very cavalierly by this strange withdrawal, and here 
was I left alone with no directions how to act, and a 
positive certainty now that there was something in the 
background which I did not understand. 

I said I hoped he had brought me some letters. He 
answered, with the same open air of cheerfulness. No, 
he had not, but that Tom had promised to write very 
soon. 

‘Hang him!’ said Valentine, with sudden vehe- 
mence. ‘ Promised to write to his own sister ! But,’ 
he added, in a sympathizing voice, cracked thougli it 
was, ‘ never mind, D. dear ; you must stop, you know, 
till he comes to fetch you, and won’t that be a trial to 
this child! Never mind! he’ll try and bear it.’ 

There was something very affectionate in his manner, 
and as Mr. Brandon did not say a single word, but 
merely stood by looking on, he continued his remarks, 
interspersing them with many quotations and jokes, to 
which I could not respond, and Mr. Brandon did not. 

My sensations of shame at the way in which I had 
been left on the hands of this family, the fear lest I should 
intrude, and the consciousness that they were perfectly 
aware that Tom cared nothing either for their feelings 
in the matter or for mine, so much overpowered me 
that I sat down in the glorious sunshine on my heap of 


402 


OFF TEE SKELL1G8. 


grass, mechanically holding my lap full of flowers, anJ 
wondering what I was to do if neither Tom nor my 
uncle did write before the end of the week. 

Still Mr. Brandon stood like a statue beside me, and 
still Valentine talked; but I only heard his words as if 
they had been a slight noise a long way off that had noth- 
ing to do with me. I was thinking on the uncertainties 
of wind and tide. My uncle had put to sea, and who 
could tell when he might be in port again. 

A momentary silence recalled me to myself. Valen- 
tine, having finished all he had to say, paused, and then 
exclaimed, with sudden vehemence — 

‘ Now, D. dear, I shall never believe you again when 
you say that you can’t help moving. If you would only 
sit in this way you would make a lovely negative, I’m 
positive. As for Giles, he is as still as a stone. How I 
wish I could take him with his nose relieved so beauti- 
fully against that laurel tree ! ’ 

I answered that as Liz did not come, I would go in 
and dress for dinner. 

I did go in, and found Mrs. Brand in my room wait- 
ing for me, and pushing a letter into her pocket. 

‘ Is that from Brand ? ’ I asked. 

She said it was, and, declaring that I was very late, 
began to excite a most unnecessary bustle, pulling out 
gowns and sashes, and strewing my possessions about 
the room. 

‘ Don’t be so nervous,’ I said. ‘ I will not ask you 
any questions.’ 

Instead of answering, she reminded me that visitors 
were expected to dinner, and pretended to be very 
anxious about the plaiting of my hair. Her agitation 
made her longer than usual about my toilet, but that 
was a comfort, for I wanted a little time, not to gain 
information, for that at present I shrank from, but to 
gather courage, and become able to attend to what was 
about me. 

I had a suspicion floating in my mind. I had cher- 
ished it for some time. The foundation for it was very 
slight, and I was anxious not to betray it on any ao- 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


403 


count, but to appear cheerful and easy about Tom til] 
the last moment before I was compelled to have the 
suspicion verified. 

I had so completely subsided into the family during 
the last fortnight, and become so accustomed to pay Mr. 
Mortimer the little attentions of a daughter, instead of 
receiving from him the attentions of a host, that when 
I advanced into the long drawing-room a certain change 
of manner in him arrested my attention instantly. 

He spoke to me, set a chair for me near his own, and, 
making some kind remark about Tom, said, as if on 
purpose to set me at my ease, that as my brother could 
not come back, he hoped I should make up for it by 
prolonging my own stay as long as I could make it con- 
venient or find it agreeable. To this formal invitation 
I returned a grateful answer ; but I derived a kind of 
notion, from the manner of it, that it was at Mr. Bran- 
don’s suggestion. I thought he perceived the likeli- 
hood of my receiving no directions, and wished to spare 
me the pain of feeling that I was encroaching by let- 
ting me first have an invitation to stay. 

Mr. Mortimer received my answer politely, but the 
kind of familiar, almost loving, manner which he had 
assumed towards me of late was altered. He had be- 
come courteous again, and treated me as he did his 
other guests who now began to arrive. 

The fine woman was present, and her daughter Jane. 

This young lady had a very large fortune, and I had 
often heard her talked of. I looked at her with some 
interest. She had been called a heavy-footed girl, and 
she certainly was no sylph, but I thought her rather a 
fine young creature, and observed that her mother kept 
a watchful eye upon her, noting who talked to her, and 
who came to her side. Specially she was watchful of 
Mr. Brandon, and when he talked to Jane, which he 
did rather often, I thought that the daughter was much 
pleased, but that the mother was not pleased. 

Neither need have cared; there was no interest in 
his manner that could give reasonable hope to the one 
or fear to the other. 


404 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


Captain Walker took me down to dinner, and Lon 
sat as far from him as the length of the table would 
permit. 

Captain Walker was eminently stupid that day, and 
I was eminently silent. I had heard before all his 
anecdotes about his twin brother; they never varied 
in the least, but they were told with confidential 
earnestness, and were supposed to demand all the in- 
tellect of the listener to enter into them, and laugh in 
the right place. Not being in the least funny, we had 
sometimes laughed in the wrong place, but this we soon 
found disconcerted him, and we took care now always 
to laugh when he said, ‘Wasn’t that droll?’ or ‘Wasn’t 
that witty?’ 

Mr. Brandon sat on my other side, and Jane Wilson 
talked to him. She was animated and full of interest ; 
full of curiosity too, and wanted to hear about a cruise 
that she heard he had been taking with a friend of his 
in a yacht, a friend whom she wished she had seen 
more of, for he seemed to be a very singular young 
man. 

Giles escaped rather pointedly from this subject more 
than once ; the third time she mentioned it he turned 
to me, and addressed me for the first and only time 
during dinner, saying something intended to show her 
that I was the sister of his yachting friend. 

Duiing the rest of the evening I felt impelled to watch 
him, and wonder whether he had anything in his mind 
wliich he would communicate to me. He seemed aware 
of this, and never approached me. If he had anything 
to say that was certainly not the time. Once I chanced 
to be standing in the same group with him, but he re- 
mained mute till it dispersed, and only Valentine was 
left, when he said to him — ‘ Oubit, I shall expect you 
to read with me before breakfast to-morrow.’ 

‘All right,’ said Valentine. ‘Well, D. dear, how did 
you get on at dinner-time with your brilliant com- 
panion ? ’ 

‘You will be overheard, Val,’ said St. George. 

And Valentine continued in a lower key — ‘Silly of 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


405 


Lou to persist in sitting apart from him. Now, if you 
and I had been together, we should have been as happy 
as possible. I say, I hate this black gown ; why don’t 
you wear white ? Isn’t this thing hideous, Giles ? ’ 

Mr. Brandon being thus directly appealed to, just 
glanced at the offending array, but made no answer, 
and presently Jane Wilson came up. 

‘ Mr. Brandon, you are wanted to sing a duet.’ 

‘ With whom ? ’ 

‘ With me.’ 

As Jane Wilson led him off I thought she had a 
pretty piquant manner, but I observed that her mother 
had moved to the piano before them, and was looking 
over the music. 

Three duets were produced one after the other. 

‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Wilson, ‘my dear child, have you the 
temerity to wish to sing this with Mr. Brandon ? It 
will make your defects too evident.’ 

Jane put up the second — ‘Oh, you have had no 
lessons on this one, love.’ 

The third was proposed. 

‘This will do very well,’ said Mr. Brandon, care- 
lessly. 

‘ German,’ said Mrs. Wilson, ‘ is so very unbecoming 
to the voice, and your voice does so completely kill 
Jane’s, that really — ’ 

‘Why should she not sing a solo, then?’ said Mr. 
Brandon. ‘This one looks pretty.’ He placed one on 
the piano and walked away from the mortified girl and 
gratified mother, quite unconscious as it seeiied of the 
feelings of either, and utterly indifferent as to whether 
he sang or not. 

‘ Isn’t that droll ? ’ said Valentine softly to me, ‘ Every 
one but Giles can see the preference in that quarter.’ 

‘ He does not see it then ? ’ 

Evidently not, and I am sure he would not like it if 
it was pointed out.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘ Oh, because I have often heard him laugh at fellows 
who leave the wooing to the ladies, and say nothing 


406 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


was worth having that did not cost a man some trouble 
to get, and he should not thank any woman for doing 
his work for hini.’ 

‘ He is quite right, but if he does not see when it is 
done for him, why then he is a short-sighted mortal.’ 

‘ D., my dear, I do not think there is much fear lest 
you should follow in J. W.’s steps. You will take a 
great deal of earning, I expect.’ 

‘ People generally call that winning.’ 

‘ No, what they get by good luck or chance they say 
is won, but what they work for they say is earned. 
Now if I could earn you — ’ 

‘ Don’t talk nonsense ; you never would, even if you 
tried, which you never will.’ 

‘ What do you know of my future ? Do you pretend 
to be a prophetess ? Now my impression is that I shall 
try, and if so, that I shall probably succeed.’ 

‘ I consider it very impertinent in a boy like you to 
talk in this way.’ 

‘ But it won’t be impertinent when I’m a man !. I am 
considering what will probably happen when I am a 
man. Valentine Mortimer, Esq., of Trin. Coll., Cam- 
bridge. I think I see him now ; he comes riding to the 
strand on his fine black mare, his whiskers, I perceive, 
are brown ; he draws the rein, the yacht rocks in the 
offing, a lady waves a handkerchief — ’ 

‘ Well, go on — He comes on board in the market 
boat with the vegetables, singing “ Rule Britannia,” but 
by the time he has stepped on deck he is very ill, and 
says, “ Oh, please let me go back to my papa, and I’ll 
never do this any more.” ’ 

‘ So he is put ashore, and the lady becomes a Hmilax 
eimulata.^ 

‘ Does that follow ? ’ 

‘ On philosophic and general grounds, I should say so 
decidedly. Is it likely indeed in a country where there 
are more women than men, that each woman should 
have more than one good offer?’ 

‘ Did I hear you say good ? ’ 

‘You did. Look at my height; is that nothing? 


OFF TEE SKELL108. 407 

Look (prophetically) at my whiskers; will they be 
nothing ? ’ 

‘I should expect to find that remarkably eligible 
ladies would have several good offers if the one you 
seem to promise me is a specimen of a good one.’ 

‘ Remarkably eligible ! Do my ears deceive me ? or 
can it be that you allude to yourself? ’ 

‘ Of course ; you would hardly be ambitious of secur- 
ing anything not remarkably eligible ; besides, with 
those brown whiskers that are coming, to what might 
you not aspire, especially if you are not plucked in your 
“ little go ? ” And to tell you the truth I sometimes 
think you won’t be, now that I have taken such pains 
with your Greek.’ 

‘You had better mind what you are about,’ exclaimed 
Valentine, shaking with laughter. ‘This sort of thing 
may be carried a little too far ; ’ and as he spoke a little 
piece of cotton wool flew out of his ear, and performing 
a short arc, dropped on to the floor. He picked it up 
hastily and restored it, but his brother who was passing 
before us paused as if struck by the sight, and turning 
towards him, murmured in a melancholy tone, — ‘ And 
certain stars shot madly from their spheres, to hear the 
sea-maid’s music*’ 


i08 


OFF TEE SKELLIQB. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

‘Quoth the raven, “Never more.” * — Edgar Poe. 

T hat night I asked Mrs. Brand what Biand had 
said in his letter. 

She replied, that he had said master’s shirts 
wanted new wristbands; and there had been a hole 
burnt in one of the best table-cloths. That the captain 
of the yacht being ashore one day, Mr. Brandon had 
persuaded master to let him steer, and had as nigh as 
possible run down a lighter ; that the cook had lost two 
basins overboard ; and that Mr. Graham was all right. 

The last piece of information was what I wanted, 
and I slept well after it. 

At breakfast-time the next day, I observed that Mr. 
Brandon seemed in excellent spirits ; and when I caught 
his eye, he did not look at all like a man who had any 
disagreeable news to communicate. He preserved his 
air of open cheerfulness; and when Valentine and I 
came up into the drawing-room to do our Greek, we 
found him standing on the rug arguing with Liz, de- 
claring that she had nothing to do, and was very much 
to be pitied in consequence. Liz said she had a great 
deal to do, and declined to be pitied. 

He then began to mourn and lament o ver his school. 
‘ Why did she never go and see it ? ’ 

‘ Oh, you go yourself every day.’ 

‘ But I cannot superintend the needlework ; besides, 
you know that when I went out I entreated you girls 
to look in now and then.’ 

‘Dorothea lias been there several times,’ answered 

Liz. 


OFF THE 8KELL1GS, 


409 


* Yes,’ I said; ‘but not to teach. We went, at first, 
to take the children’s portraits.’ 

‘Not in school hours, I hope.’ 

‘ Oh, no ; on their half holiday.’ 

‘ And then she made friends with the mistress,’ said 
Valentine; ‘and taught that ugly girl, Mercy Porter, 
to do double-knitting. Do you know what that is, 
Giles?’ 

‘No. Did you accompany Miss Graham on these 
visits ? ’ 

‘You will be thankful to hear that I did, Giles. 1 
hope I know my duty. There is but a step, you know, 
between us; so no wonder I tread closely on your 
heels.’ 

Liz, as he said this, was leaving the room ; and when 
she shut the door, St. George answered, with un- 
expected heat and asperity, — 

‘ I’ve often told you that I hate and detest that ex- 
pression, “ step-brother P I don’t acknowledge any such 
relationship.’ 

‘Well, Giles,’ said Valentine, humbly, ‘I think we 
both talk now and then of our step-sisters.’ 

‘ That’s a different thing,’ he exclaimed, in the face 
of facts. ‘Your father is nothing to them, but he is to 
me; and if I ever heard you call me seriously your 
step-brother — ’ 

‘As if I should think of such a thing!’ cried Valen- 
tine, firing up with sudden indignation. ‘Now, did 
you ever hear me do such a thing seriously in your life 
— did you ? ’ * 

‘You young scapegrace,’ answered Mr. Brandon, with 
a short laugh, but still looking heated ; ‘ if I did regard 
you in that light, I would — ’ 

He emphasized his words by giving Valentine a slap 
on the head with a thin loose pamphlet that he was 
holding, and by approaching his clenched fist very 
closely to that young gentleman’s nose. It was a little 
awkward for me, for I am sure he had not quite made 
up his mind whether he was in joke or earnest. 

‘You would what?’ cried Valentine, seizing it. ‘I 


410 


OFF TEE SKELLIOJS, 


gay this is assault and battery, Giles, sir ! Let me alone. 
You would what?’ 

By this time restored to good temper, they were half 
wrestling together; but Mr. Brandon soon got free 
The Oubit received several other noisy but harmless 
blows with the pamphlet, and was pushed down again 
on the sofa, still vociferating, — 

‘ You would what, Giles ? You would what ? ’ 

‘ Why, I would treat you very differently from what 
I mean to do,’ he replied. 

And, picking up his pamphlet and charging me to be 
strict, he presently departed; but in two minutes he 
came back again, and said to Valentine, — 

‘You are going to have a visit from the magistrate 
this afternoon, a domiciliary visit ; and you had better 
clear out a little of your rubbish — those two miserable 
mallards, with cotton wool for eyes ; and that j)eck of 
feathers, which you call a. cock. Your father thinks the 
arsenical paste you dress your bird-skins with may be 
injurious to your lungs.’ 

Valentine looked aghast. 

‘You put that into his head,’ he exclaimed. 

‘ Did I ? W ell, as I said before, you had better look 
out ; or, take my word for it, he’ll teach these birds of 
yours to fly.’ 

‘If he does,’ said Valentine, ‘I will take him up to 
your shop — I declare I will. You’ll blow yourself up 
some day with your chemicals, and it shall not be my 
fault if he doesn’t think so. You’ll have a visit too, sir. 
I must do my duty by you, Giles. You’ll see two 
majestic flgures standing in your doorway, and the 
younger one denouncing you. What will you sav then, 
I should like to know ? ’ 

For a moment St. George stood stock-still, as if he 
was really considering this ridiculous threat ; then, — 

^ Scene for the novel!'* he exclaimed. “‘His eldei 
brother, waving off the graceless youth, replied, — 

* “Take thy BEAK from out my den, 

And lake this Daniel from my door 
(Quoth the Oubit, ‘ Never more ’). ** * 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 411 

He then charged me to be strict, said he was going 
tc his school, and with that he departed. 

‘I’m sorry I vexed old Giles,’ said Valentine, when 
he had smoothed his dishevelled locks; ‘particularly aa 
he has been so generous.’ 

‘ What has he done ? ’ 

‘ Done ! Why, given me the money like a brick, and 
made no difficulty about it.’ 

‘ I hope you told him that I only accepted that ring 
by mistake.’ 

‘ I not only told him all about how it happened, but 
I told him, honorably, that it was all a joke. I went to 
his room when he was shaving. At first I felt very 
sheepish. I don’t exactly know why ; and (hang him) 
I am sure he enjoyed my being out of countenance. 
At last, just as I had screwed up my courage to speak, 
he said — “Well, old fellow, lost or won?” So I said 
“Won.”’ 

‘ Then I hope he made game of you ; and said it was 
presumptuous of you.’ 

‘No, he didn’t.’ 

‘ But what was it that he did say ? ’ 

‘Why, he said, “Then there’s your money.” And 
there I found it laid ready on his desk. Somebody 
must have told him.’ 

He paused, and whistled softly, as if reflecting on the 
possible author of this communication. 

‘ But I had something to tell him that soon drove 
that out of his head,’ he observed. ‘ Dorinda has done 
for me ! I promised St. George quite solemnly that I 
would seriously reflect, and all that, you know, while 
he was away, whether I could make up my mind about 
being a clergyman. And I told him to-day that I had 
decided I wasn’t fit ; and I thought I had better make 
short work with it, and say at once that I couldn’t get 
up any particular wish to be fit. As soon as. I could 
venture to look at him, I could see how put out and 
vexed he was. “You need not think that I shall sanc- 
tion your going to Cambridge,” he said, “ if that is the 
case. When he’s really displeased I always give him 


412 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS, 


a soft answer — that’s a religious thing to do, and, by 
experience, I know it answers. So I said I was very 
sorry ; but I hoped he would tell my father, for I did 
not like to tell him myself ; and he was always so kind 
that I depended on him to get me out of this scrape, 
I say, isn’t Giles a good fellow ? ’ 

‘ He is very good to you ; but I am not at all obliged 
to him for taking Tom away just Ijecause he was tired 
of staying here himself’ 

‘ I told him the whole story about the ring, and then 
about Dorinda — at least, so much of both as he would 
listen to ; and he agreed to tell papa. And then he 
asked me the cost of the camera, and said, if I liked to 
give him back the five sovereigns, he would pay for it. 
That’s what I call fraternal.’ 

He then plunged into his Greek; and I, while I 
listened, felt suddenly that I need not flatter myself 
that this help given was to be, or ever had been, of any 
use. Some other career would now be fixed on for the 
Qubit. So I thought I would not give him a lesson 
after that day. And I listened to eveiy passing foot 
on the stair, longing to waylay Mr. Brandon if he 
should come down, and get him, at least, to tell me 
whether Tom would soon come and fetch me away ; 
hurt because he had disliked my going to his school, 
and suddenly so ashamed and so covered with, and 
hampered with, a new humility at finding myself left 
to the kindness of this family, that it seemed to be 
almost taking a liberty to occupy their rooms and sit 
upon their chairs and sofas. 

I did hear St. George’s foot as he passed the door; 
but I had not courage to stop him. He had made it 
obvious to me that he did not want to talk to me. I 
had believed, during his absence, that he had partly 
retreated to get away from me ; and now he had not 
even got my uncle to write to me. I thought he should 
have done that, as I was left with his people. 

I presently saw him, through the window, get over a 
stile and cross the fields in the direction of his school. 
There was nothing to be done — nothing whatever; 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


413 


but I felt as if the sweet sunshine of that morning 
would not warm me. And when Valentine, having 
finished his Greek, went down to the camera, I went 
up-stairs, and spread some drawing materials before 
me. 

He shouted up to me several times as I sat in the 
window; but I would not come down, and was idly 
taking the view from the window, when I heard St. 
George’s voice below. He had returned some other 
way from his school. In a few minutes his foot was 
outside the door, and he hastily entered. 

‘ What, Miss Graham, indoors this lovely May morn- 
ing?’ 

‘ The window is open. I have the air here.’ 

He darted a look at me. 

‘There is Valentine, moping and mourning because 
of your desertion ; and the Captain in despair, at your 
not coming to group the sitters.’ 

‘I would have come if they had said they wanted 
me.’ 

Upon this he passed to the open window, standing 
with his back to me ; and, adjusting a pocket telescope 
which he had taken from the table. 

‘ I am afraid,’ he began, — and stopped to alter the 
focus, — ‘ I am afraid you have been uncomfortable and 
anxious about Tom. I should have mentioned him be- 
fore, but I have not been alone with you.’ 

‘I only wish to know what you think.’ 

‘ Oh^ I feel quite comfortable ; he is safe enough for 
the next five or six months ; and the Captain will not 
easily be persuaded to put into Southampton again ! ’ 

You ought not to have taken him there, was my 
thought, but I only said, ‘Thank you.’ 

Still he stood with the telescope to his eye, and his 
face to the window. 

‘ 1 did not know,' he said, ‘ till I saw you again yester- 
day, that you had any suspicion to cause discomfort 
concerning him, and cast a shadow over your happit 
ness. Mrs. Brand was sure you had not.’ 

‘ OA, then he asked her^ I thought to myself. 


414 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


He tamed round as he said these words, and observ* 
ing that his own shadow fell over me, and was dark on 
my drawing-paper, he smiled, and moving aside, con- 
tinued : ‘ But now I hope the shadow cast by Tom will 
withdraw as completely as mine has done, and that you 
will go down and amuse yourself with the camera.’ 

I rose mechanically to go down, as he seemed to 
expect. ‘As completely as mine has done,’ was my 
thought as I put away my drawing materials ; ‘ I won- 
der when your shadow will withdraw, — if ever.’ 

I went down, Mr. Brandon remaining in the drawing- 
room; some morning visitors had joined the party 
below, and their portraits were taken. When they 
retired, Valentine and the Captain began to set these 
portraits in the sun, occasionally shouting to Giles to 
come and be taken too, and he declining. 

At last his brother and sisters made a rush up-stairs, 
and bore him down with them in triumph. He de- 
clared that he was very busy, that he had a lecture to 
write, that he hated the smell of collodion, and that he 
had not answered his letters; but the sense of the 
family being against him, he submitted with a tolerably 
good grace, and sat down, desiring us to tell him when 
we were ready, that he might call up a look. 

In the meantime, as we were quite ready, I only 
waited till he had settled himself in the chair, and his 
mind had wandered away, then I withdrew the slide, 
the right number of seconds were counted, and it was 
only when the slide was clapped down again that he 
knew what we had done. 

The portrait came out in our best style. Shall I 
ever forget his disgust when he saw it — particularly 
when everybody else declared it to be capital ? 

‘ That meant for me, — that odious sentimental fel- 
low ! Take me again, and smash it. It’s a libel.’ 

So far from being a libel, it was the record of his 
very best expression — the expression of a strong man 
with keen feelings, when he yields to some momentary 
fanc^and wanders pensively into the land of dreams. 

‘ Why, you frequently have that look,’ said Valentine, 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


41b 


‘ when you are thinking. Give it to j)apa ; hang it 
in his dressing-room; he will like it, if you don’t.’ 

Mr. Brandon demanded to be taken again : we did 
take him, — his expression was steady almost to de- 
fiance, and seemed to challenge the scrutiny of man- 
kind. In the meantime, being privately instructed, I 
bore off the first portrait and hid it. 

‘ By-the-bye, I heard him say, as I approached agaiij| 

‘ I am not going to have my smoking-room turned into 
an exhibition and school of art. I found pinned up 
there, seventeen portraits of Yal, and two dozen and 
one of Miss Graham — all vile, and most of them dis- 
torted; several of you. Walker, and a notable <*ollec- 
tion of groups. I have taken the liberty to turn them, 
all out ; you’ll find them on the morning-room table ; 
but I wish to remark, that if ever I find such things in 
my den again, I shall take severer measures with them.’ 

‘ Some people would have considered their room to 
be embellished by them,’ I observed; ‘and really I 
think it was a delicate attention to hang yowr walls 
with pictures of your school-children.’ 

‘ Was it intended as such ? ’ 

‘She did not say it was,’ replied Valentine; ‘but if 
we had known you were coming home we should have 
taken them away.’ 

‘ Well, I forgive the past, because it merely arose 
from utter forgetfulness of my existence. Stop, I am 
not quite ready — now.’ 

He was now sitting again for the third time, the* 
second portrait being pronounced by all too much like 
a brigand for private life. 

The third was cheerful enough, and was said to be 
tolerably good, so Valentine entered the three in the 
book in which we recorded all these works of art. 

‘ Giles Brandon, Esq., commonly called St. George. 

‘1. He sweetly dreameth. 

‘ 2. He says he won’t. 

‘ 3. He smiles at fate.’ 

He laughed when we showed him the entries, and 
asked if we had now done with him. 


416 


OFF THE SKELLlOd. 


‘Because, if I am supposed to have done my duty bj 
my family, I shall be glad to go.’ 

I said we had done with him, and he went away to 
his writing with alacrity. 

The very next morning the expected letter arrived. 
It lay on my breakfast plate, and was not from Tom, 
but from my uncle ; when I saw that, I had not cour- 
age to open it, but kept it till after breakfast, and then 
ran up to my room, locked the door, took it out and 
began to read. The first sentence made me quite easy 
for the present about Tom. 

‘ Dear Dorothea,’ it began, ‘ Tom and I have been 
laying out some plans together for cruising off the coast 
of Iceland this summer.’ Perfectly right, I thought, — 
perfectly prudent of my uncle, — a very good thing to 
do ; but I went on to the next sentence, and found that 
it was a kind of apology to me. He wanted Mrs. 
Brand, — could not very well get on without her, — • 
was sorry on my account, as I should probably have 
wished to retain her ; but I could get another maid. 
I should not want money. Of course I could see, being 
a girl of sense, that a five months’ cruise away fi'om 
England, and up so far north, was out of the question 
for me, but I should have my own way in choosing 
my home meanwhile. I might live with Miss Tott if 
I liked, for Tom had written to her, and she had no 
objection to have me. If I did not like, I was free to 
decline, ibr it had been left open. 

I need not fret, and should not, he supposed, at what 
was inevitable : he could not give up Tom, and be 
could not have us both. His choice was therefore 
made, but I could settle in any place I liked, provided 
it was not Southampton ; and then, when they wished 
to have me, or I wished to come on board, I could do 
so ; in fact, I could always spend a few weeks on board 
when it suited me. This being settled, and I no doubt 
agreeing with him as to its desirability (in fact, if ever 
there was a girl of sense I was that girl), he should 
proceed to business, and tell me that he had paid into 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


417 


a certain bank, which he named, the sum of 180^., 
which was to last me a year, and I was to draw it 
quarterly. 

He intended always to allow me that sum, and should 
settle it on me, so as to make me independent of others, 
and even of himself. He did not say that he should 
leave me anything more in his will, and he did not say 
that he should not ; all he wished was that I should not 
reckon on such a thing. If I married, no doubt I 
should do myself justice and marry prudently, and I was 
by all means to let him know beforehand ; in the mean- 
time I must be careful not to get into debt. He had 
1 eard from my father, who seemed to be very unsettled, 
and talked of going to California to look about him. 
Tom was well, and sent his love. 

‘ And, my dear Dorothea,’ it concluded, ‘ I am yours 
sincerely, ‘ G. Rollin.’ 

My impression is, that I read that letter over at least 
twenty times. I did not shed a tear over it ; there was 
little in it to touch my feelings, only to agitate, disap- 
point, and shock me. I had lost my home, and was not 
to see my best friend for several months ; but he was 
still good to me, and had provided for my comfort. 

Again and again I read it ; first I was foolish enough 
to think I could persuade him to change his mind, but 
as I reflected, and still continued my reading, I per- 
ceived the hopeless nature of such an attempt. To 
v/rite a letter was a great undertaking for him, and he 
had not done all this without consideration, and as he 
thought necessity. 

I might, if I chose, or if I could, believe that these 
tbanges would make but little practical diflTerence to me, 
for was I not told that I could express my wish to come 
on board, or that they could write for me ? But would 
they? I remembered Ipswich, and my heart sank, 
but still I shed no tears. Indeed, this was no new 
thing — I was quite used to it; but there was this dif- 
ference, that I might now be my own mistress, live 
where I pleased, and occupy myself as I chose. But 


•118 


OFF THE SKELliaS. 


my uncle ! he had been good to me, kind to me, even 
fond of me. I thought of that, and that I had lost 
him, and tears began to choke me. But I did not cry 
long : the restraint and discipline of so many years at 
school had at least the effect of enabling me to com- 
mand myself. I sobbed a little while with passionate 
regret and yearning, and then dried my eyes, feeling 
that now it behooved me to act, and to do it imme- 
diately. 

What, then, did I mean to do ? I was entirely free 
to do as I chose. I alone was responsible. Reason 
and conscience told me that I ought to go — that I 
must not take undue advantage of the hospitality which 
had been so kindly extended to me. But then I 
longed to remain : my floating home was a home no 
more ; everything else that I cared for was under the 
roof which now sheltered me ; and I longed to remain 
in it a little longer — just a little while — and not banish 
myself from it perhaps for ever. 

I sat down to think this over, and had little doubt 
that Mr. Brandon knew of the plan which had just 
been unfolded to me. And yet he had treated me with 
particular indifference ever since his return. He was 
now the only member of the family who called me 
‘Miss Graham;’ and once or twice, when I had been 
talking, he had smiled in a way that gave me pain. It 
was like the smile of one who, from his vantage-ground 
of superiority, is pleased and amused with the conver- 
sation of a child. 

It was a glorious morning. I saw Valentine, whose 
Greek I was neglecting for the first time, idly wander- 
ing on the lawn, and gardening among the flower-beds; 
Lou was pacing the gravel-walks mth her lover ; Liz 
was sitting on a bench, reading a novel ; and across the 
fields, in the distance, I saw Mr. Mortimer and Giles 
approaching. This was just what they would all do 
and how they would all look, when I was gone. Of 
how little consequence I was to them ! I had no flimily 
to belong to, nothing and no one to whom I could de- 
vote myself ! Oh, what should I, what could I do ? 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


419 


Thinking of this, tears came again ; but I was too 
much astonished, excited, and bewildered for weeping 
to last long. Thoughts began to crowd upon me : the 
perplexity of too much liberty made wild work with 
my pulses ; that standing alone, and yet being obliged, 
as it were, to set off and walk instantly in some direc- 
tion or other, tore my mind with conflicting emotions. 
I was like a person deserted on a wide common of 
green grass, with no paths and no object in sight, and 
yet the certainty that it must be traversed ere any 
place of shelter could be found. 

Kneeling down, I tried to pray, but my mind was 
confused, and became more so every moment; but I 
was alive to what passed, for I heard the lunch-bell 
ring, and thinking that it would be easier for me to 
meet the family in the garden than at table, I put on 
my bonnet, took my parasol, and ran down the back 
staircase, and through the court-yard, into the shrub- 
bery, from whence I emerged, and approached the 
group as quietly as I could. 

Something in the manner of more than one made 
me think that the contents of my letter were known. 
They did not cease to talk, and took no direct notice of 
me, but allowed me to mingle with them till, gradually 
and quite naturally, I became involved in the discussion 
which was going on, and we all walked in to luncheon 
together. But here my desired self-possession gave 
way. liiz said, in a sympathizing tone, ‘ Come, and 
sit by me, dear.’ 

‘No, I say that’s a shame!’ exclaimed Valentine; 
‘ this is her place. Sit by me, D. dear.’ 

Whereupon I found myself, before I knew what I 
was about, hurrying away from the table, sobbing, and 
covering my face with my hands. I heard Giles say, 
‘ You stupid fellow ! ’ to Valentine ; I heard Mrs. Hen- 
frey scold somebody else; and in a minute or two, 
without knowing exactly how I got there, I found my- 
self standing in the smoking-room, shivering, and de- 
claring that I was determined not to faint — I could 
help it, 1 was sure, and I would. 


420 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


‘Nerer mind if you do, dear,’ began Valentine 
‘ we shall not think it at all silly of you.’ 

‘ Be quiet ! ’ whispered Mr. Brandon : ‘ that’s not the 
style of thing to say ! Now, Miss Graham, sit by the 
window. Here is water. Hold it to her lips, Val. You 
wish to command yourself, of course.’ 

‘ Of course ! ’ I repeated. 

‘And you are better already. See, here is your 
maid ! ’ 

I now first observed that I was entirely abandoned 
by the female part of the family, and this did a great 
deal to restore me; far more than Mrs. Brand did, 
though I was straightway left for her to do her best 
with me. 

I could soon walk up-stairs, and obliged myself to eat 
and drink. I had a sort of notion that it was humiliat- 
ing to be hysterical, or, at least, a sign c f weakness, in 
which the mind bore its part as well as the frame, so I 
struggled against my sensations with such vigor as I 
believe helped to keep them ofi*. 

‘ Ah! ’ said Mrs. Brand, when she came in with some 
jelly, ‘ what tender-hearted ladies these are, to be sure ! 
Miss Grant as near as possible went off into hysterics 
when you turned faint; and Miss Elizabeth, when I 
asked if she would like to come and sit with you, 
was all of a tremble, and said she couldn’t on any 
account.’ 

I stayed in my room all that day, and performed 
what I found the rather difficult task of telling Mrs. 
Brand the contents of my uncle’s letter. 

Mrs. Brand was more philosophical over my troubles 
than she usually was over her own. ‘It was a dis- 
appointment, certainly ; but, dear me, people had disap- 
pointments in this world, and must look to have them, 
ma’am.’ 

At night, when I was going to bed, she remarked 
that she supposed I could spare her in a day or two. I 
said, ‘ Yes ;’ and being by this means brought to some 
practical thoughts, I found myself better during the 
evening. I had exhausted myself with crying over my 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


421 


lost home, and now, weary and sick at heart, I fell 
sound asleep, and woke in the morning quite well in 
health, and able to consider what I should do. 

I liave often thought that when some trial or disap- 
pointment is inevitable, settled, and not to be stirred 
by anything that those can do who have to bear it, 
one of the chief sources of its power is removed. It 
is what we think might possibly have been otherwise if 
we had done otherwise ; what might now be possibly 
removed if we only knew howto remove it; what is 
doubtful as to result; what is complicated with uncer- 
tainties and calls for action on our part, while yet we 
cannot decide what that action should be ; what calls 
for discretion and demands vigilance, which can harass 
the mind and most effectually destroy its peace. None 
of these disadvantages beset my trouble, and the only 
circumstance which might have been altered if I had 
had time to plead for it, was that I might have been 
able to take leave of Tom and my uncle, which I now 
found they did not wish me to do, for my uncle had 
not mentioned to me what port he should touch at, to 
take Mrs. Brand on board ; and when I questioned her, 
I found that she had received her own instructions, 
and knew in what direction to proceed, though I knew 
nothing. I was aware how much they both dreaded 
scenes, so I easily understood the motive for this re- 
serve. 

Mrs. Henfrey very kindly came into my room before 
I went down next morning. She kissed me, and said 
they knew that I had now to fix upon a home, and 
Mr. Mortimer hoped I would not think of leaving his 
house for at least a fortnight. Having now no wishes 
to consult but my own, I accepted the invitation, and 
felt glad to have that short time in which to settle my 
plans. It was something definite, too — far pleasnuter 
than the most cordial proffers of hospitality with no 
fixed limit ; and, as I went down-stairs with her, I felt 
how good they had been to me, and how glad I was to 
stay a little longer. 

Aftci" breakfast, Mrs. Brand showed me my uncle’s 


422 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


letter to her. As soon as I could spare her, she was to 
repair to Weymouth. The ‘Curlew’ was lying in 
Portland Roads : she was to take a boat and come out. 
to her. I found that she had already packed up her 
boxes, and found, also, that my uncle really did wL-h 
me not to appear with her, so I said she might go that 
very morning. 

When it was time for her to start, I gave her a keep* 
sake, and kissed her, charging her to write whc never 
she could. We both shed a few tears; and, when she 
was gone, I felt that now I was indeed utterly alone, 
and must begin to consider my plans in good earnest. 

To this end I wrote to Mrs. Mompesson, told her 
that I now wished for a home, mentioned what I could 
give for it, and asked her whether she could recommend 
one. Without asking her to let me live in her house, I 
said enough to show that the simplest way of living 
would satisfy me, and I gave her a good opportunity 
to have me as a boarder, if she and her husband wished 
it ; and as they were poor, I hoped they would wish it. 
The answer was from him, a long kind letter. Noth- 
ing would have pleased them so much as to have made 
a home for me themselves; but they had no spare 
room, for the house was filled with their children and 
pupils. That was the only house I could have made a 
home of, for I loved its master, and knew that I could 
love his wife and children. It was for his sake that I 
had wished to live in the country, and my thoughts, on 
reading his letter, took an entirely new direction. I 
knew I could go to Miss Tott, if I chose ; but I did net 
like the notion, and I did not know, with 180Z. a year, 
whether I was rich or poor. 

I talked to Mrs. Henfrey on the subject; but I founJ 
her information to the last degree vague and unsatis- 
factory. I talked to Liz ; but she evidently knew noth- 
ing, for she spoke of keeping a pony and a boy, which 
I thought must be out of the question. Lou, of course, 
was absorbed in other matters. 

So I tried Valentine, taking care to choose a time 
when Giles was present, for I had formed a tolerably 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


423 


distinct plan, and I wished to see in what light he 
would regard it, and whether he would think it pre- 
posterous. I had to wait some days, for Giles \’ery sel- 
dom was present ; at last I found a good time, and, 
beginning to talk with Valentine, he fell into the little 
trap I had laid for him. 

‘What would you do, Giles,’ asked Valentine, ‘if 
you had 180/. a year, and were a young lady?’ 

‘ That would depend on whether I cared most for 
domestic pleasures, or for amusements, intellectual or 
otherwise.’ 

‘ But, supposing domestic pleasures out of the ques- 
tion, as I think they are if one lives among perfect 
strangers, don’t you consider the first thing to decide 
on would be whether you were rich or poor ? ’ 

‘No, for that would be according to the life chosen. 
If you chose to do without a maid, and board with a 
quiet family, in the country — say, a clergyman’s — you 
might be rich, for you could easily be boarded for 90/. a 
year, and thus 90/. would remain for personal expenses.’ 

‘ And I should be miserable ! Perhaps I should not 
like the people ; and assuredly I should not have half 
enough to do. I want to have lessons, and get a read- 
ing ticket for some good library, and visit the poor, and 
see pictures, and hear lectures.’ 

‘ Then you must live in London, and be extremely 
poor.’ 

‘ Why so poor ? ’ 

‘Because you must have a maid. No young lady 
can go about London, and attend libraries and lectures, 
and visit the poor, alone.’ 

‘I know it would be very unfashionable to walk 
about alone.’ 

‘ It would not be right ; you could not do it — that 
IS to say, I believe your uncle would not approve.’ 

‘ Then, what will a maid cost ? ’ 

‘You could not be boarded in a quiet, private family, 
in the most unfashionable neighborhood, with your maid, 
under 100/. a year, at the very least. Then, if your 
maid’s wages were 25/., that would only leave you 554 


424 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S 


a year for all your personal expenses, including dress, 
cabs, charity, travelling expenses, tickets for the coveted 
lectures, and money for the desired lessons — books, 
doctor’s bill, if you should have one.’ 

‘ I think that sounds something like happiness and 
haid work.’ 

‘ Indeed ! I thought it would sound like borrowing 
and sorrowing.’ 

‘ Of course, I am aware that I know very little of life 
and of money.’ 

‘ Very little, indeed,’ he answered, in a tone of pity. 

‘ So, as I have absolutely no one at all to ask advice ofj 
excepting you, I will tell you what my plan is ; and if 
you are sure it cannot be carried out — if you know it 
cannot — why, then, perhaps I had better reconsider it.’ 

‘ I am all attention.’ 

‘ Then, there are three things that I wish to learn — 
wood-engraving, dressmaking, and cooking.’ 

Mr. Brandon’s face expressed the utmost astonish- 
ment ; but he said not a word. 

‘You have decided that I am to be very poor. In 
case I had been rich, I should have acted differently ; 
but, if I proved to be poor, my plan was to teach^ in 
order to earn money to learn. I must find a family of 
little boys, to whom I can teach Latin and Greek, for 
an hour or two every day. My maid will walk with me 
to the house — ’ 

‘Extraordinary! ’ interrupted Valentine. 

‘ With the money I earn so, I can learn wood-engrav- 
ing and dressmaking. When I know enough of wood- 
engraving to practise it, and earn money by it also, I 
shall spend that in learning to cook — ’ 

‘ Amazing ! ’ said V alentine, changing his word. 

‘ I shall then begin to lead a happy life ; I shall have 
as much to do as I can do ; and, being by that time a 
proficient in wood-cutting, I shall have a class of re- 
spectable girls, to whom I shall teach the art, and so 
make them independent — ’ 

‘Astounding!’ cried Valentine, changing his word 
again. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


425 


Mr. Brandon stood stock-still, and said nothing. 

‘My maid will make my dress; for my reading, I 
shall go to the British Museum. Perhaps, in order to 
save money for concerts and lectures, I shall translate 
some French books, and I may, perhaps, write books for 
children. By that time I shall leave off taking lessons 
in wood-cutring altogether, and, still teaching my little 
boys, I shall have plenty of money to spend in laying 
in a stock of eatables ; and I shall go to some industrial 
school, and offer to be honorary cook there, and teach 
the girls to make all sorts of nice stews and puddings, 
and soups and pies. I shall provide the materials; and, 
at first, I shall give away the dishes. I shall let the 
girls carry them home to their mothers; then the 
mothers and other poor women will come to learn. I 
shall charge a penny a lesson, and hire a kitchen, to 
concoct and cook the things in ; and I shall give prizes 
of pies to those who learn fastest.’ 

‘ Frantic ! ’ exclaimed Valentine. 

I had observed, for some moments passed, that Mr. 
Brandon had difficulty in restraining a smile, which first 
showed itself in the corners of his mouth, and when he 
chased it thence, peeped out at his eyes. He, however, 
did not say anything disrespectful concerning my plans ; 
but, when I ceased to speak, remarked that he was 
afraid — he hoped he might be mistaken — but he was 
afraid I was too sanguine. 

‘ Then, if I am, and if I do no good, and derive no 
pleasure from all these things, only think what a desir- 
able person I shall be for papa; if, when he grows 
older, he should send for me to go out to California.’ 

‘ Ca-li-for-nia ! ’ said Valentine, with unfeigned con- 
tempt. 

‘Yes, I am almost sure it will end in my going out to 
California.’ 

‘ And I am quite sure, D. dear,’ replied V alentine, 
with extreme suavity, ‘ that it will not end in your going 
out to California.’ 

‘ Indeed !’ 

‘ For I, being yout most intimate friend, and, as I may 


426 


OB'F THE SKELLIG8. 


say, your most honored adviser, you would naturally 
write to me first, and say, “My valued compatriot, if I 
go out to this hole of a California, and dislike it, will 
you come and fetch me home again ? ” I should reply, 
“No, I won’t.” Consequently — ’ 

‘ Consequently, she would get some other swain to do 
her that service ! ’ interrupted Mr. Brandon. 

‘Consequently,’ I added, ‘I should go, determined to 
be pleased, and never to come home any more.’ 

‘ Consequently ! ’ burst in Valentine, after this double 
interruption, ‘ she would think better of it, and remain 
at home ; if she didn’t — ’ here he paused, and shook 
his head in a menacing fashion. 

‘Be calm, my dear boy,’ said Giles, bantering him, 
‘this peril seems imminent; but is not to be warded 
off by threats or warnings. The Smilax simulata is not 
a plant, as I have heard, that flourishes in those diggings 
— all ladies are “ remarkably eligible ” there.’ 

Seeing me look surprised, he added, ‘ Those wallflow- 
ers, you perceive, grow in my garden now. I think it 
just as well you should know that anything you say to 
Valentine is sure to be in my possession the very next 
moming, by seven o’clock at the latest.’ 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


427 


CHAPTER XXV. 


*In brief since I do purpose to marry I wil think nothing to any pniu 
pose that the world can say against it.* — Much Ado about Nothing, 

I N a week I was to leave the hospitable house where I 
had been entertained so long. In a week I was to 
begin life for myself, and as yet I had arranged noth- 
ing but this, that I was to go to Miss Tott for a fort- 
night, and stay longer if I chose. Valentine, always 
affectionate, always pleased to be with me, became more 
so as the time went on ; there was a kind of brother and 
sister intimacy between us, which was partly the result 
of our being so much thrown together, and partly the 
result of his natural openness of temper and love of 
companionship. 

‘ I say,’ he observed, as on the first day of this week 
we were sitting together, mounting our photographs, 
‘ if you want a maid why don’t you talk to Ann Molton ; 
the workwoman, you know, who comes and makes things 
for Liz and Lou, and who mended your tarlatan dress 
when we tore it in the garden ? ’ 

‘ What makes you think she would suit ? ’ 

‘Oh, Giles put it into my head. If she were your 
maid, as he remarked to me, you could learn dress- 
making of her for nothing ; and as you like Miss Dorinda 
so much, you would like Ann, for she is just like her.’ 

‘But would she like me and the sort of life she 
would lead with me?’ 

‘You can ask her if you like; she is here now. I 
believe she would like, for she wants to leave this neigh- 
borhood ’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIGa. 


428 

I went straight lip-stairs to speak to this woman, the 
inducement to try and secure her being that she was 
like Miss Dorinda — like her, as I hoped, in her chief 
characteristic, her contented piety and deep, and yet 
calm reverence of heart. 

She was seated at work in a spare bed-room, and I 
came in and sat down, telling her to give me a seam to 
run : as I worked I began to talk to her, and gradually 
'an folded my plan — my self-sufficient, benevolent, igno- 
rant plan. She listened at first with surprise, then with 
some excitement of manner, her plain, pale features 
grew intelligent, her great thin awkward figure stooped 
towards me attentively. I told her a little of my his- 
tory, and her hands began to tremble over her needle 
and thread. 

Happening to pause for a moment, I was surprised to 
find that, without looking at me, she wished in her turn 
to be the speaker; she first spoke of her deficien- 
cies. She was not very quick with her dressmaking — • 
she did not always manage to make such good fits as 
she could wish — but her desire was to work, ‘ Not with 
eye service, as pleasing men, but as to the Lord.’ I saw 
she had perceived my drift, and let her go on. She 
wished to leave the neighborhood, for she could hardly 
earn enough with her needle to keep her; she did not 
wish to be a nurse, for she had never been used to chil- 
dren ; she had often prayed to the Lord to let her be of 
some use, for she did not feel that it was much use to be 
just earning bread enough for one’s own mouth. She 
thought if she could be maid to a lady — such a one as 
gave up her time to good works — she might be a help 
to her in many ways. Miss Braithwaite had advised her 
to try for such a situation; but of all places in the 
world she should like to go to London, there was such 
a wilderness of folks there, and so few to do anything 
for them. I saw that the plan had commended itself to 
her, and that she would follow my fortunes if I would 
let her. I asked what wages she would expect an 1 she 
said : 

‘ Oh, ma’am, I will take whatever you can afibrd.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


429 


I did not in the least expect to fail, tlieiefore I never 
warned her that she might find the life she was choosing 
very different from that my excited fancy had pictured, 
— on the contrary, warming with her excitement and 
kindling with her enthusiasm, I went from one scheme 
to another, till when I at last said, ‘Do you think you 
should like such a life?’ she replied, ‘Yes, ma’am; I 
have always thought it would be a blessed thing to have 
anything to do for Him.’ 

But quiet as her voice was, almost blissful in its 
serene hopefulness, I saw at once that the love whicli 
had prompted those words was something I had never 
attained to, the gratitude was far more real, the motives 
were more pure. 

As for me, the craving desire fbr action had been one 
reason why I had made these benevolent plans. I 
wanted this kindness bestowed, to stand me, if it 
would, in the stead of kindness no longer received ; I 
wanted that others should depend on me, and so ap- 
pease my heart for the loss of my brother and my home ; 
I wanted soon to be able to forget this very visit ; I had 
certainly not made any friend by it, and I began to 
perceive very plainly that I had lost one. What a 
happy thing it was for me that I secured Ann Molton ! 
what would have become of me and my plans but foi 
her good sense and good principles ! 

When I had secured her services, I went down again, 
but found no one in the drawing-room, excepting Mr, 
Mortimer, and he, though polite, was generally so dis- 
tant to me now, that I was glad to withdraw and go 
down into the garden, where I found the family. 

Giles and Valentine were busy converting an arbor 
into a dark chamber, by means of oil-cloth and boards, 
but when the latter saw me, he left his brother to* finish 
the work and made off to my retreat, which was a low 
seat under the shadow of some laurels. 

Giles, with his coat off, continued to hammer away at 
the chamber; Valentine took a knife and began to cut 
a little frame for one of the photographs. 

‘I say, D.,’ he observed quietly, and as if there was 


430 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


nothing particular in tlie remark ; ‘ I say, D., what fun it 
would be if you and I were engaged! ’ 

‘ I wish you would not talk such nonsense ; I do not 
approve of it, and it does not amuse me at all.’ 

‘ I did not mean it should. I meant it quite seriously. 
You are nearly twenty, I am now in my twentieth year; 
why shouldn’t we be engaged if we please?’ 

‘If we please, certainly, but one of us does not 
please.’ 

‘You don’t know how you should like it till you try! 
Suppose now we agree to be engaged for six months, 
and see how we like it? You won’t? Well, say a 
week then ? ’ 

‘ No ; I would not for an hour.’ 

‘ Why not?’ 

‘ Because I do not particularly care for you ; because 
you do not particularly care for me ; and because I have 
no particular wish to make Prentice miserable ! ’ 

‘ Prentice,’ he burst out, ‘ has nothing to do with this ! 
it’s entirely a case of spontaneous combustion on my 
part. He did nothing to fan the flame. I shall be so 
horridly dull when you are gone, I shall not know what 
to do. Come, I will make you another proposition ; I 
will be engaged to you, but you shall be free.’ 

‘That is impossible! An engagement must be a 
mutual thing.* 

‘It need not be that I see. Well, D., as you are so 
obliging as to permit it — indeed I do not see how you 
can help it — I hereby record my intention, and my 
circumstances. I shall have a thousand pounds when 
Giles has given it to me, and shortly after I am of age, 
if he will but let me go to Cambridge, I shall have a 
Bachelor’s degree. Such are my prospects ; I lay them 
at your feet ; I am an engaged man.’ 

‘ What frantic nonsense ! ’ 

‘And you are quite free. Now, don’t look so furious 
— don’t, or Giles will see it ! I shall hang four-and- 
twenty of the best of the portraits of you round my 
room, and I shall wear one in each waistcoat pocket. I 
shall kiss your Greek lexicon every day, and heave up 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


431 


two sighs over the happy past. Dear me, how pleasant 
it is to be engaged! We shall correspond, of course? 
What do you think Giles said to me, this morning? 
why that I did not treat the girls who visit us with suf- 
ficient respect. That my manner was too jocose and too 
careless.’ 

< Did he mention me in particular ? ’ 

‘Yes, among others. Our beloved Giles has some 
queer notions as to the deference which is due to ladies, 
and inseparable from true regard He says I am rude 
sometimes, and also exacting.’ 

‘ I quite agree with him.’ 

‘So I told him. I remarked that you had several 
times made the same observation yourself.’ 

‘ And what was his reply ? ’ 

‘ Oh, a great deal that was not at all to the purpose , 
but as I did nothing but laugh, he became furious and 
we had a short quarrel, after which — ’ 

‘After which you made it up, and shook hands?’ I 
suggested, for I wanted him to tell me some more. 

‘ Shook hands 1 ’ he repeated with scorn. ‘ There was 
no occasion for that; in real life men don’t quarrel and 
make it up as they do in books. Scene for the Novel, — 
“ ‘ O brother of my heart,’ he exclaimed, ‘ guide of my 
tender infancy, let not cold disdain or irritating chaff 
part true spirits.’ Then he flung himself on the manly 
breast of his brother, who strained him to his heart ; 
they wept, and the latter imprinted a fraternal kiss on 
his ample brow.” Let me see how many years it is since 
I kissed Giles. Not since he went to New Zealand, I 
think, and I wouldn’t have done it then on any accourU 
if there had been anybody to look on. No, we didn’t 
shake hands, but we are all right again.’ 

It was the day before I was to go to London. Some 
of my boxes were packed, and Ann Molton was sitting 
in my room occupied with needlework. Valentine and 
I were about to read our Greek together, when Mr. 
Mortimer came into the drawing-room, and saying that 
he hoped I would excuse his interrupting us, began to 
unfold to Valentine a plan by which I perceived that he 


432 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


would be absent for that day and night, and would not 
return till an hour or so before the time of my depart- 
ure. Mr. Mortimer had a letter in his hand. I thought 
it could just as easily have gone by post, but he seemed 
detennined that it should go to his friend across the 
country by hand, and that hand Valentine’s. 

Valentine looked a little sulky and also a little sheep- 
ish. A suspicion certainly did cross my mind to the 
elfect that this was done because Mr. Mortimer thought 
his son took rather too much interest in me, and wished 
to detach him from my side ; but if he did think this it 
was rather too late to act, when I was so near the time 
of departure. 

Valentine went his way. I was left with Mrs. Hen- 
frey till luncheon time, and after that meal, as Lou and 
Captain Walker went out for a drive, and visitors arrived 
who had to be entertained, I found myself alone, and 
put on my bonnet, resolving to go and take leave of 
Miss Braithwaite. 

I had never been there alone before, but the way was 
pleasant, there being nothing between the grounds of 
the two houses but some fields. Miss Dorinda Braith- 
waite had exercised more influence over me than I was 
aware of at the time, and I wanted to consult her about 
some of my plans. She was very kind that day, and as 
I sat by her she drew me on to talk to her. Her words 
at first were a comment on that text, ‘ If ye know those 
things, happy are ye if ye do them.’ But that subject 
can be discussed by many people, and does not involve 
much that is confidential or difficult to unfold. Another 
succeeded ; and to my own surprise I found myself tell- 
ing her how I had sat on Mr. Mompesson’s knee in the 
roof of the Minster, and he had told me for the first 
time the wonderful story of the world’s redemption. 

I sat with Miss Braithwaite some time, and came 
away much the better for her advice and cheeiLul con- 
versation. I walked briskly, till I came to the little 
wood which skirted Mr. Mortimer’s gi’ounds, and there 
sat down to enjoy its beauty, and to think. 

I had come to the same place where we had sat and 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


433 


talked before when the trees were bare ; they were 
covered with leaves now, and the ground was cai-peted 
with woodrufFe. 

I leaned my cheek upon my hand, many thoughts 
passed through my mind, my eyes were fixed on the’ lit- 
tie tinkling dancing brook that flowed past my feet, and 
I remember indulging a vague wonder as to where it 
was going, and where I was going. London was the 
name of the place where I was going. I began to feel 
that I knew little else respecting it, and scarcely any- 
thing of the life that I should lead there. 

I looked up on hearing a slight noise, and saw Mr. 
Brandon approaching me ; but 1 did not move, and as he 
stepped over the brook, he said, ‘ I supposed I should 
find you here.’ 

He sat down and remained some moments perfectly 
silent ; at last he said, in a tone almost as dreamy as my 
own thoughts, ‘ What have you been thinking of this 
afternoon, as you sat here all alone ? ’ 

I answered, ‘ The wood is full of spirits ; you said it 
would be some day. My thoughts were about them^ 

He was again silent. The wood-doves were cooing, 
and the flickering sunshine played on the ground ; but I 
was in no humor to speak first. I had nothing to say. 
When he did speak, it was in a perfectly different tone, 
cheeiful and matter-of-fact. 

‘ I believe you have chosen a very busy life for your- 
self; consequently if you have any vague fears that 
time may change into certainties — ’ 

Absolute silence again. He made no attempt what- 
ever to conclude his sentence, and did not look at me, 
but beyond, upon the slope covered with blue flowers. 

I also looked straight before me, and began to feel a 
strange agitation ; his having come to find me was un- 
usual, and I wondered what he had to say. 

Still propping my chin on my hand I listened to the 
cooing of the doves, and felt the sweet air and sun- 
shine. 

His last words were, ‘ I dare say you think it singular 
— singular that I should come out here to disturb your 
19 aa 


434 


OFF THE 8KELL1GS. 


reverie. I have not done so willingly; nothing but a 
desire to prevent future mistakes, and perhaps future 
troubles, could have induced me to take upon myself 
this task.’ 

As he stopped I involuntarily said, ‘ What task, Mr. 
Brandon ? ’ 

‘ I myself, ’ he went on, heedless of my interruption, 
‘ have suffered much from a trouble which — which Ido 
not say will ever be yours. I do not say that you are 
laying the foundations for it deep and strong; I do not 
even say that there is any such tenacity in your mem- 
ory, or strength in your heart, as may be likely to make 
such a trouble long and burdensome ; but — ’ 

What could he mean? he spoke with deliberate 
steadiness, like a man who has made up his mind to a 
certain task, but does not like it ; and here he paused 
as if expecting me to reply, but I had nothing to say. 
All sorts of vague fears floated through my mind as to 
what might be his meaning, but I did not utter one of 
them, and when the silence grew oppressive I broke 
it by making some remark about the beauty of the 
wood. 

If he heard he took no notice; his face, though 
naturally without any ruddy hues, was capable of a 
sudden flush for a moment. I saw this dawn and wane 
again as he went on in an embarrassed manner — ‘But 
when I reflect that your acquaintance with me has been 
the cause of your coming here, and of what I perceive 
to have followed, and when I call to mind how few 
friends you have — perhaps no advisers — and how little 
you can know of life or of yourself, I feel that I owe 
you some duty, though it is a difficult one for me to 
perform, for after all there is some risk. It is possible 
that I may be mistaken, but you have alluded to my 
words, that there are spirits in the wood. W ell, if I 
am going to ofiend, perhaps to wound you, that allusion 
reminds me how best to do what I have to do. It will 
give me my share of the pain. I shall not inflict more 
than I shall endure.^ 

Every time he spoke he began almost cheerfully and 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


m 


quite steadily, but he faltered as he went on, and ended 
with evident agitation. I could still find no answer, 
but when he paused was curiously conscious of the 
cooing of the doves, the babbling of the brook, and 
the flicker of sunbeams dropping through gaps in the 
foliage, and wandering over my gown and my hands. 

Whether he was waiting till I should ask him to ex- 
plain himself, or only until he could decide what to say, 
I did not know, but now a silence followed, which waa 
long enough for a world of thought, and wonder, and 
perturbation. He had said that he himself had suf- 
fered much, and that he wished to prevent future mis- 
takes, and the same kind of suffering on my part. He 
had hinted before of his love for that lady who had 
held his flowers so carelessly. The nature of his past 
trouble was therefore evident, but why had he taken 
it for a text on which to preach warnings to me ? 

Tom had often told me that my manners were too 
humble, too gentle and conciliatory. ‘ When you say 
anything that you fancy may displease, you always en- 
treat forgiveness with your eyes,’ he had once said to 
me. I had stayed a long time at Wigfield. I had 
been inTiis way. Had I entreated forgiveness of St. 
George — even if I had, what could he mean by this ? 
He was approaching some subject vaguely, his words 
were ambiguous. They sharpened my senses, they 
were even a terror to me, because he himself was so 
embarrassed and so out of countenance. Could I be- 
lieve that he was not satisfied with having left me, with 
having scarcely spoken to me since his return ? Was 
it possible that any man in his senses could think it 
needful to give me yet stronger hints than these? 
And if he did ? 

As a planet struck suddenly by some resistless force, 
and made to whirl on with a wilder motion, so that the 
great clock of her time would take to beating faster, 
finding it hard to keep count, while she devoured the 
awful miles of her oval, I seemed to be suddenly sent 
on to rush over a great piece of my life in a moment, 
to be thinking faster and seeing deeper, seizing on 


m 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


things as they whirled by, and understanding what they 
meant, and what they were. 

First, I thought, could he mean to warn me about 
Valentine? No, I constantly sparred with Valentine 
and frequently snubbed him; he was fond of me, so* 
ciable and easy, but a world of boyish impertinence 
mingled with his compliments ; even these were almost 
always jokes, and that St. George knew quite well. I 
was obliged to dismiss that possibility. Then I thought 
of all I most loved — that brother who had always 
been dearer to me than anything that breathed. He 
M'as so still. I felt that if I could get back to him and 
the old man who had indulged me, and loved to see me 
happy, I would thankfully, though not without a pang, 
have turned my face from this St. George forever. I 
did not care for him and love him then? Yes, very 
much ; I knew in a moment that he stood next to these. 
Considering that he had made it hard for me to under- 
stand him, and that his great reserve excluded me from 
the springs of his higher life, I think it was strange I 
did not love him wholly, for these things kept me often 
thinking about him, but then I could not now alto- 
gether approve of him, and his conduct in taking 
Tom away had cost me my home. Yet, as he was still 
silent, I felt there must be something coming that 
1 should intensely dislike to hear. If it was a reproof, 
what could it be about? Since he had taken Tom 
from me, I had felt painfully humble. I belonged to no 
one, none wanted me. I could not stand against this, 
I felt compelled to lower my self-esteem to the level of 
other people’s estimate, and I would not speak lest I 
should draw him on, or help him on. But now sup- 
posing he did mean, if he could, to touch on my feel- 
ings towards himself, what could I do? I had only 
that minute found out how dear he was to me ; could I 
possibly make up my mind to answer, to excuse myself, 
to explain? Certainly not, I would rather let him 
think what he pleased. But in a few minutes I gathered 
courage, and better sense (as I then thought) came to 
my aid, and I brought myself to believe that whatever 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


437 


he wanted to say, it could not possibly concern my 
feelings toward himself. What object could he have 
in doing so, unless he thought I loved him ? and if he 
did, surely he was the last man to commit such an in- 
tolerable blunder as to dare to lecture me about it. He 
was sensitive — more than that he was manly, and in 
the truest sense of the word he was a gentleman. 

Thinking on this during the long silence, my heart 
began to beat more calmly, and the painful flush on 
forehead and cheek subsided. 

He had sat by me so absolutely silent and motionless 
that at last I was impelled to turn my head and look 
at him ; he also looked ill at ease, and very much em- 
barrassed, but when he met my eyes he resumed his 
steady, his almost cheerful manner, and as if he had 
been waiting till I could rouse myself, he said, imme- 
diately — 

‘Have you been to Wigfield?’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘When that tree was younger — that plane-tree 
which grows on the opposite side of the slope was ten 
years younger, the roof and some of the windows of 
Wigfield Grange were visible above its boughs, and 
almost every day I used to come to this spot to look at 
them. Did Miss Dorinda ever mention her sister to 
you? ’ 

‘ The sister who died ? Yes.’ 

‘ The sister who died. I think I see her now, and 
scorn myself and my folly. I was a youth of nineteen, 
and she, a dark tall woman, past her early bloom, but 
splendid in her mature beauty. She was thirteen years 
my senior. She was haughty, decided, and full of 
womanly dignity. She used often to come to this 
slope and sit here reading with her poor crippled sister. 
From a child I had been accustomed to read and sing 
with her. She was fond of me ; she used to chide me 
if I did not come. Sometimes, being but a boy, I was 
blunt and rude. She said she must teach me how to 
behave to her sex. She did teach me, and when I was 
little more than nineteen I bad fallen in love with her 


438 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8. 


* Anything else as unsuitable could hardly have been 
found if I had gone far and wide in search of it. She 
did not find out my infatuation. Dorinda did, and im- 
plored me to keep away. She said she knew this pas- 
sion had not taken deep root, and begged me not to 
darken my youth with the shadow of such a deplorable 
mistake — those were her words — I often thought of 
them afterwards.’ 

‘ Do not go on, Mr. Brandon ; why should you ? It 
distresses you.’ 

‘Why should I? — I must — 1 had loved her for 
love’s sake only. I was so much younger than she 
that marriage with her hardly occurred to me. I was 
contented with my present. To be with her, and hear 
her speak was bliss enough. One day, as I sat here 
dreaming of her, she approached, and I was so amazed 
at her beauty and her superb air of careless sovereignty, 
that I remained dumb and motionless, gazing at her, till 
stopping close to me she looked down into my eyes 
that fell beneath hers, and laughed. “You ridiculous 
boy,” she exclaimed, “ you are actually blushing ; how 
dare you ? ” ’ 

I turned my head and stole a glance at his face ; it 
was reddened as if the shame of that moment was still 
rankling in his heart ; his eyes flashed and he went on : 

‘ I stammered out some excuse, in which her beauty 
bore a part. “ My beauty ! ” she replied. “ My beauty, 
indeed ! Let me hear no more of this ; the beauty that 
was born for you is now probably sobbing and crying 
over her French verbs, or daubing her cheeks with 
bread and treacle in the nursery.” She laughed again, 
but painfully, and then she said a great deal more that 
was scornful and almost insulting. But that could not 
stop me; on the contrary, when she began to shed 
tears of vexation and excitement, I was goaded on to 
make full confession of my love, to plead with her to 
think favorably of it, and to confess that I had cherished 
it for months. “There,” she said, with a sigh of im- 

f atience, “ that is enough, get up ! You indeed ! Why, 
have kissed you dozens of times when yon were a 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


439 


chubby little child. I had rejected the only man I ever 
cared for before you were seven years old. You! Go 
away, and learn to forget your folly.” That was during 
the long vacation. I did go away, and when I returned 
to Trinity I studied hard, but I did not forget her; 
when I had taken my degree I travelled, but still I did 
not forget her. 

‘When I was in my twenty-fourth year, coming 
home after a tour, I was told that she was ill. My 
secret had been well kept by the two sisters, and by 
myself, at their desire. My first glance at her showed a 
change quite indescribable, but quite decisive. They 
moved her to Dawlish, and forgetting her scorn now, 
and only desiring to be soothed by the attentive ten- 
derness of a love like mine, she asked me to follow her 
there, and I did.’ 

‘ Stop, Mr. Brandon! why say any more?’ 

‘ There is not much more to say. She had been a very 
careless, indifferent person, very thoughtless for time, 
very reckless as regarded eternity, but during those 
miserable days and weeks, — miserable to her, for life 
was to be taken leave of, and to me because she was so 
dear to me, — Dorinda was like a good angel to us both. 
She told us the old story which we both knew so well, 
but which we had not comprehended or received ; she 
unfolded to me the compensation of the Divine love, and 
calmed her with the tidings of peace and immortality.’ 

‘ Don’t tell me any more 1 — don’t tell me any more ! ’ 

‘ Why not ? ’ 

I did not know, but his voice, so full of pathos and 
broken with short quick sighs, went straight to my 
heart. I had never felt how dear he was to me, so 
plainly as I felt it then ; and for the moment I thought 
that to have been the object of such a love on his part, 
and to have known it, I would willingly have laid down 
my head and died like that beautiful lady. 

He went on and told me of her death, and how she 
had kissed him before she died, and thanked him for 
all his kindness to her ; and tlien there was a silence, 
during which I trembled and wept, yet not Wxthout a 


440 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


cert/ain sense of relief, that the recital whiiih had 
troubled him and me so much was over. But why had 
it been told to me? Why had he been so resolutely 
bent on my knowing all about this his first love ? This 
was obviously a prelude to something else, and yet that 
something was to offend me. 

Yes, and it did offend me. It came after another 
pause, 

‘And all this is past. I was determined to tell it 
you ; I have forced myself to do it, in order that 1 
might declare that it has passed away. I look back 
and acknowledge to myself that the rending away of 
that hope was far better for my happiness even here, 
than its fulfilment could have been. I thank my God, 
notwithstanding, that I went through that affliction; 
it has enabled me to sympathize with trouble ; it has 
made me stronger to endure what may yet be in store 
for me, and braver to take all comfort that may be left. 

‘ To waste his best affection on the dead, and by per- 
verse and cherished constancy to carry on a first mis- 
take, to shut his heart against the blessings of a wife 
and a home, was not meant to be the lot of man. It is 
not the doom of man, if he will rise and do battle with 
it ; no, nor the doom of woman either.’ 

Silence once more, silence in my heart, which won- 
dered at him, and could not repeat to itself, but could 
oily feel the chill of those words, ‘nor woman either.’ 

The old alarm came back again stronger and more 
distinct than ever ; now I saw, because I was forced to 
see it, that he had told me this story in order not only 
that I might apply it to myself, but that I might un- 
derstand that I had to overlive my regard, because it 
was not reciprocal. But I was determined to make no 
answer; there was still, I thought, a chance that I 
might be mistaken. I should like to have risen and 
gone away then, but my limbs trembled, and more than 
that, I was arrested by a fresh surprise. 

‘ Oh,’ he exclaimed, bringing his hand down heavily 
on a tree-stump beside him — ‘ Oh, I never felt so like 
a sneak in my life ; ’ and then almost directly he added, 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 441 

with the greatest gentleness — ‘ If one person can get 
over such an attachment another can.’ 

I answered ‘ yes.’ He had the mastery so completely 
then, that I could no longer, even in my mind, dispute 
his conviction, — but with the desperation of wounded 
self-respect, I clung to the hope that he would spare a 
woman’s reserve from anything further ; but no — he 
actually went on to say, ‘ It would be affectation to 
pretend that I do not read your feelings; you can 
aiardly expect that I should not read what is so plain — 
I, at least, whoever else is blind.’ 

His voice became softer and more agitated, and as for 
me, my sensations were indescribable. 

‘ It was a most unexpected revelation to me, I do most 
solemnly assure you, or I would not have let it go so 
far ; but I do not want to excuse myself. I will think 
only of you : whatever you may think of me, and what- 
ever I may think of myself at this moment, I am sure 
that I am right to speak, and tell you that your love is 
not returned. I am going away so soon — going to 
leave this country — that I am certain it is best to 
speak.’ 

Shame choked me, but even at that pass I am sure I 
was as much shocked for him as for myself. Oh, why 
had I not found strength and courage to stop him ? He 
was degrading and tearing himself down from the high 
place he had held in my fancy — in my heart ; was not 
this to be a consummate, to be an odious, to be an in- 
tolerable prig ? No, I supposed it could not be, because 
such a pang of pity and wounded affection made my 
heart bleed, that though the picture I had drawn of him 
in my thoughts was quite torn to pieces, I did not de- 
spise him even then. 

Telling me to my face that I loved him, and must try 
to overcome my love ! Every atom of womanly pride 
that I had in me was roused to revolt against him, but 
my heart struck against my side. The words were 
burning in me that longed to demand silence of him, 
but my tongue had so absolutely lost the art of utter- 
ance, that I sat beside him yearning to stop him, and 
19 * 


442 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


almost fi’antic because I could not, while he went on to 
tell me that if love had been given and onlv affectionate 
friendship returned, the sooner this was known the bet- 
ter. He made a movement then as if he would have 
taken my hand, but this was more than I could bear 
and I recovered strength to push his away, and turn 
aside my head. Very few men, I should think, have 
made such a mistake as this. Surely it must have been 
the greatest he ever made. He did not appear to 
resent my pushing away his hand, but he actually went 
on to say, — 

‘ I ought to have said all this before. I take shame 
to myself ; but I did not know how great was the mis- 
chief that had been done. I did not suppose there was 
any danger in those trifling attentions which now — 
which I now see to have been so wrong.’ 

His regi’etful avowal of the mischief that he believed 
he had so unconsciously done — done with no effort 
worth mentioning — called from me some expression of 
the torture to which he was subjecting me ; and all of 
a sudden he appeared to become aware of, and to be 
shocked at, the eflTect he was producing ; and, taking me 
up in his arms, as carefully and apparently with as little 
efibrt as if I had been a child, he carried me down the 
slope to the little stream, and dipping his handkerchief 
in the water, wiaing it out, and damped my forehead 
with it; then took up my hands and bathed them one 
after the other, by dipping his own into the water, and 
drawing mine through them. 

A choking sensation, that could find neither words 
nor tears, almost overpowered me. 

* Are you better now ? ’ he asked. 

My soul naturally enough revolted against his sym- 
pathy. His face was very near mine, leaning over me 
with anxious solicitude; and I recovered strength to 
put out my hand, and with what little vigor I had 
to push it away. In doing so, the restraint that, like a 
girdle seemed to tie down my heart, gave way ; and my 
[)ent-up feelings relieved themselves by a flow of pas 
won ate tears. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


413 


There was no need to consider what he might think 
or feel. He had treated me with no real mercy, with 
no respect ; and if he had been ever so wrong in all his 
surmises, I felt that I should hardly have cared to tell 
him so. 

I heard him mutter to himself that he was a fool, 
that he hated himself, that he had done ten times more 
harm than good. I assented to it all in my inmost 
heart ; but I felt that the smart even of that moment 
was all the sharper because I was so ashamed of his 
wonderful blindness — his unmanly blindness — to what 
was due either to himself or to me. 

But the more passionate the tears, and the keener the 
pang that causes them, the sooner they are dashed 
away. I soon recovered myself sufficiently to see that 
my tears had thoroughly frightened and subdued him 
His forehead waS crimsoned with self-reproach and ern* 
barrassment, and when I looked at him he could not 
meet my eyes, but asked, with evident anxiety, whether 
I felt able to walk, and whether I would take his arm. 

I said no; but that, if he would go on, I would 
shortly return alone. 

Upon this he answered, with a sort of restless impa- 
tience, that he could not do that ; I was not well enough 
to be left, and surely I did not mean to allow him no 
time to explain himself. He wished to assure me that 
he was aware he might possibly have been mistaken ; 
and he hoped I would forgive him. 

‘ I will forgive you,’ I managed to say, ‘ if you will 
only be silent. I will not — I cannot — endure another 
word.’ 

‘You treat me,’ he replied, regardless of the condi- 
tion, ‘ as if I had presumed to accuse you of some great 
folly, or even of some grave fault.’ 

‘ If you had,’ I replied, ‘ no talking now could ever 
set it right. Do you think I am going to argue with 
you about this ? No ; you must think what you please; 
but, also, I shall think what I please.’ 

‘ But,’ he still persisted, ‘ I must be heard — I will be 
heard.’ 


444 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


‘ Mr. Brandon, I will not hear another word of that, 
or of anything concerning it.’ 

I was able to rise then, and begin to hurry away from 
him towards the house; but he easily kept beside me. 
And presently he said, — 

‘ If I am not to talk of that, let me say something 
different.’ 

As I made no objection, he added, — 

‘ I may have no other opportunity for years. I want 
fou to try, in spite of your present feelings, whether you 
cannot look upon me as your friend, and to believe that 
<f you should ever want a fiiend, and I had no other 
desire to prove myself one, than that I might in some 
sort atone for the pain I have given you to-day, it 
would be sufficient to make me urgently long for the 
opportunity or the chance of doing so. Will you give 
me such a chance ? Do you hear me ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Will you promise to think of me as your friend, 
and apply to me if I can be of use to you ? Indeed, 
I have more power, far more power, than you sup- 
pose.’ 

Yes; I knew he had Tom in his power; I knew of 
the struggle, and his victory ; but apply to him ! ! 

He looked at me for an answer, but I could not 
promise, for I knew that there were few emergencies 
under which it would not be more bitter to sue to him 
than to endure to the utmost. ‘You do not know,’ he 
said, deeply hurt, ‘the pain you are inflicting.’ 

‘ I know you to be a very benevolent person,’ I an- 
swered ; ‘ I am quite aware that you like to be of ser- 
vice to people.’ 

He made some gesture of momentary passion and 
irritation, but he struggled with it, smoothed his brow, 
and said: ‘ Therefore you will promise? ’ 

‘I promise not to forget what you have said,’ I 
replied. 

‘ And nothing more ? ’ he exclaimed. 

I could not reply, and after a long pause, he said, in 
the tone of one who felt himself injured, 


OFF THE SKELLIG8, 


445 


‘ We\I, then, nothing is left me but to hope that you 
may not want a friend.’ 

Not another word passed between us; we walked on 
to the house and parted at the door. 

I went to my room, walked to the looking-glass, and 
found that my face was disfigured with crying; it 
wanted two hours to dinner-time, so as I knew that I 
was not likely to be inquired for, I drew the curtains 
and lay down on the couch, bent upon hiding my 
emotion and letting the traces of it have time to dis- 
appear. I could not endure the thought of being 
questioned as to my paleness ; more than ever I wished 
to keep a cheerful face that evening. 

It suiq)rises me now to think how womanly pride 
triumphed over all other feelings ; for the sake of recov- 
ering my self-command, I contrived to smother the cruel 
pain that came whenever I thought of Mr. Brandon’s be- 
havior to me, and I drove away all thoughts of self- 
pity with the powerful motive of keeping myself fi’om 
further tears. 

Such being the case, it was not wonderful that I 
could walk down to dinner with no trace of my pas- 
sion of tears, beyond a little flush, which made Mrs. 
Henfrey say that I had tanned myself by sitting in 
the sun. 

‘ Where’s Brandon ? ’ asked Captain Walker. 

‘ Why, he’s gone somewhere on business,’ she replied, 
in her quiet, slow tone ; ‘ set off in such a hurry. But 
that’s always his way ; he can do twice as much in the 
lime as other people.’ 

‘ That’s an excuse,’ I thought to myself, ‘ to account 
for absenting himself the last evening;’ but I was very 
glad of his absence, and more glad still when, after 
dinner, Mr. Tikey appeared, and with him the cele- 
brated Prentice. With their aid we passed the even- 
ing very well; Mr. Tikey talked to Mr. Mortimer; 
Prentice made himself ridiculous in attempts to flirt 
with Liz ; and Mrs. Henfrey spent the time in giving 
me a vast deal of good advice of a vague, unpractical 
sort, which I listened to at intervals. 


446 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


TLe two brothers did not return that night. Neither 
had returned the next morning when I came down to 
breakfast, and I earnestly hoped they would not be in 
time to meet me, for I felt that, if they were together, 
I would far rather see neither than be obliged to see 
both. 

Rather earlier than there was any need for, the car- 
riage came to the door, and I took leave of Mr. Morti- 
mer, Lou, and her Captain, and drove to the station with 
Mrs. Henfrey and Liz, and Ann Molton. Alas ! I had 
no sooner stepped on to the platform, than I saw Valen- 
tine and Mr. Brandon meeting us from the other side 
of the line. 

Valentine came up to me with flushed cheeks and a 
sort of tender excitement in his eyes, which was quite a 
new expression for him. ‘ I declare,’ he said, ‘ I thought 
I should have been too late ; ’ and as he stood looking 
at me, I said to him, smiling, ‘Well, you seem very glad 
to see me on the point of departure, you recreant 
knight ! ’ 

He made no answer, but held out his hand; and 
when I took it, he led me to one of the carriages. 

‘ This is going to London,’ he said ; ‘ get into it, D. 
dear ! ’ then he added, with boyish frankness, ‘ I really 
had no idea at all how fond I was of you, till I was 
parted from you. I say, D., do get in ; if you don’t, 
St. George will be coming to join us, perhaps.’ 

A strong reason, indeed, to induce me to enter it; 
and we had no sooner sat down, than he began to tell 
me how afi'aid he had been that he should not be in 
time to see me. He had said that already, and he next 
began to describe the dinner-party he had been at the 
night before, at his father’s old friend ; how Giles had 
come in, and they had both gone together to sleep at 
John Mortimer’s; and Giles, in spite of his impatience, 
had stayed on, arguing that morning with John Mor- 
timer, till he (Valentine) was sure they should miss the 
train. Then he paused, and I, with my mind full of 
other things, looked up at him, whereupon the boyish 
manner gave way to something more earnest, the 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 447 

cracked voice became rather tremulous, and the hand- 
Bome young face flushed a beautiful red. 

‘D. dear,’ he said, ‘I’ve often asked you to be en- 
gaged to me, haven’t I now ? ’ 

‘Yes, of course you have.’ 

‘ Quite seriously ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know about that,’ I answered, and laughed. 

‘Well, perhaps it was partly for fun, at first; but it 
is not now, D. dear. I do assure you I should wish it 
if such a fellow as Prentice had never been born. So 
now I ask you, once for all, really and truly, and not in 
joke ; and you won’t refuse, will you ? because that 
would be so — so ridiculous.’ 

‘ So what ? ’ I exclaimed. 

‘ Oh, bother,’ he replied, ‘ I don’t know how to do 
this sort of thing at all (hang Prentice, how did he 
manage it?) — I love you, though, just as much as if 
I did.’ 

‘ I will not be engaged to you,’ I replied ; ‘ really and 
truly, and not in joke, I will not ; but I should like 
that we should be very great friends, for I care for you, 
and I even love you, almost as if you were a relation of 
mine.’ 

‘ I suppose you won’t,’ he observed, ‘ because you 
think I shall soon forget you. I shan’t, though, I can 
tell you.’ 

‘No, don’t; I should be sorry if you did. I shall 
never forget you, V alentine — never ; and you cannot 
think how few people I have in the world to care for 
now.’ 

‘ But we shall correspond then ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, write often ; and so will I.’ 

‘ V ery well ; but, D. dear, there really is no mistake 
about your deciding you won’t be engaged ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not ; don’t I always tell you I won’t ? ’ 

‘You know that I am engaged to 

‘ I know you say you are, and I give you leave to 
break ofi* that engagement as soon as you please, 
U'here is Liz — ask her to come and sit with us ; I 
want to take leave of her.’ 


448 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


Instead of that he put his head out, asked her to go 
and fetch Mrs. Henfrey, and, as soon as she was gone, 
said, if I loved him as much as I had said, I ought to 
give him a kiss. 

1 replied, that if he would dreaJt off his supposed 
engagement to me then and there, I would ; and, with 
a good deal of laughter, he consented, and bent his 
fresh, boyish face towards me ; whereupon I gave him 
a kiss, and felt no more inclined to blush on the occa- 
sion than if it had been Tom. 

‘ There,’ he said, as he lifted up his head, ‘ I’ve broken 
off the engagement — I’ve not only been engaged, but 
broken it off. Prentice shall know that before he is a 
day older! I’ve outdone him at last.’ 

‘ Oh, Valentine!’ I exclaimed, ‘how can you be so 
ridiculous?’ But, at the same instant, Mrs. Henfrey 
and Liz appeared, Valentine left the can*iage, Mr. 
Brandon put Ann Molton in; and I had no sooner 
taken leave of the two ladies, and noticed that Mr. 
Brandon looked very much out of countenance, than 
the train started, and, before I had had time to collect 
my thoughts, we were several miles from Wigfield. 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


449 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

* Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, — 

Not light them for themselves ; — for if our virtiiet 
Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike 
As if we had them not.’ — Shakespeare. 

1 1 was a hot afternoon when Anne and I reached 
Miss Tott’s small house. How close and confined it 
was! how dirty and faded it looked! how dim the 
windows! and oh, the blinds! 

‘ I am sure I shall detest this part of London,’ I said, 
when Anne and I were left alone in my bedroom. 

‘I dare say this is the closest and dirtiest part, miss,’ 
said Anne in her ignorance. 

Miss Tott was very kind. My restlessness and my 
craving for action excited her observation directly, 
and she took me to church — a particular church, that 
she liked because the service was so earnest, she said, 
and so beautiful. She also took me to Covent Garden 
to choose flowers to help to decorate it. The services 
of this church, she told me, were so soothing to a spirit 
wearied with worldly dissipation and the fatiguing 
pleasures of society. Poor woman! neither she nor I 
knew anything about society. She led as dull a life as 
j)08sible. I gathered that by dissipation she meant 
balls, parties, theatres, and all the crowd of a London 
season ; but she could not afford anything of the sort, 
and I believe she thought she was soothed because some 
fashionable people, who really were overpowered with 
the Jatigues of too much of this world’s pleasure, felt 
that their minds were soothed. 

I wanted not calm, but action. My mind was highly 
strung ; I dreamed of the sea; I wanted my brother, 

CO 


450 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


and felt, day by day more keenly, how cruelly thought- 
less it was of Mr. Brandon to have taken him away 
from me, just that he might more easily amuse him at 
the time. I wanted also to forget that scene in the 
wood. The fluttering of those leaves that let in wan- 
dering spots of sunshine I often heard quite distinctly 
when I sat silent, and the passionate tones of the noble 
voice that had said ignoble things. It seemed too neai 
me now, too prominent ; it was almost intolerable some- 
times, and I craved the power to dismiss the mental 
eclioes of its lovely tones, and St. George with them, 
for ever. So in a very few days, having made up my 
mind that I could not be happy with Miss Tott, and 
that I should like to be near the British Museum, I 
sallied forth with Anne. We bought a map of London, 
called a cab, and were set down close to that veritable 
institution. 

We stood on the pavement consulting our map, while 
the sentry looked on with a supercilious air. I decided 
that I would have lodgings in Russell Square or Gor- 
don Square ; so we proceeded to that locality, but did 
not find any families there who desired to take lodgers. 
We then bought a copy of the Times^ and while w€ 
ate some soup in a pastry-cook’s shop, we looked out 
for advertisements, and found several that seemed to 
promise what we wanted. As we left each of these 
houses, Anne said quietly, but without the least hesita- 
tion, that she was sure it was not at all the right place 
for me to live in, and she was also sure Mrs. Henfrey 
would agree with her. So I found I had Anne to 
please as well as myself, and we soon decided against 
them, and went home tired but hopeful. 

The next day, however, in a street near the Museum 
we found a widow lady, formerly the wufe of a curate 
in that immediate neighborhood, and she gave us such 
unexceptionable references, and ofiered both board and 
lodging on such reasonable terms, that I thought I must 
venture to ask whether there was any disadvantage 
connected with her rooms which made it difficult for 
her to let them. 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 


451 


She frankly told me that there was : she did not take 
any boarders but ladies, and she gave music lessons 
every morning, and had a singing-class twice a week. 
Ladies did not generally like the music, and would not 
stay with her. Moreover, she had three little boys, 
who went to school in the neighborhood, and there- 
fore she dined at one o’clock, and could not change 
the hour. 

The terms were very reasonable, and I was told that 
I should have the use of the small dining-room every 
day after two o’clock; but that all my meals, excepting 
my tea, I was to take with the family. 

Mrs. Bolton, my proposed hostess, did not seem to 
believe that I would stay with her long, — hardly 
thought at first that I would come to her at all ; but 
she could refer me to three clergymen, she was an 
undoubted gentlewoman, and her house, though the 
furniture was to the last degree faded and shabby, was 
exquisitely neat and clean. I saw at a glance that 
Anne was contented, and as we retired she said she 
thought this was the kind of place Mrs. Henfrey would 
approve. 

‘ Are you to describe it and Mrs. Bolton to her ? ’ I 
inquired. 

‘Yes, ma’am,’ she replied. 

I felt that I was not alone in the world after all ; 1 
was looked after through my maid. The idea was not 
unpleasing. Not one of that family, excepting Valen- 
tine, had proposed to correspond with me ; but I was 
thankful to find that Mrs. Henfrey, who took so little 
notice of any one, was yet under the impression that it 
behooved her not utterly to lose sight of me. So we 
took those rooms, and in the course of a few days, hav- 
ing settled money matters with Miss Tott, we went to 
them. 

Excitement, novelty, resolution, and expectation had 
hitherto kept me up. I had been busy too, and was not 
aware that the first hour of idleness would be a trying 
one. So it was, however. We arrived, were welcomed, 
my boxes were taken up-stairs, there was a dispute with 


452 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


the cabman, my clothes were unpacked and laid in the 
drawers by Anne, and then she retired to her own lit- 
tle room, and I was left alone. 

I was standing before the glass, as I well remember, 
putting on my brooch. It wanted an hour to tea time, 
and I had nothing to do. I did not like to go down- 
stairs in the strange house, so I had told Anne to call 
me when tea was ready. 

The first odd sensations that I had were physical. 
My hand began to tremble so that I could not fasten 
the brooch, and looking at myself in the glass I per- 
ceived a sudden pallor, and began to feel very cold ; an 
extraordinary sense of forlornness followed, and an un- 
defined terror at the prospect which lay before me. 

I went and laid myself down on the bed, and drew 
the quilt over me ; a longing that was almost unbeara^ 
ble came and throbbed in my temples and sang in my 
ears, with the sound of the sea, and the washing of 
waves, and the voices and trampling of sailors’ feet. I 
wanted Tom and my uncle ; I wanted my own home, 
my cabin, my berth. This outer world that I had been 
thrust into was almost intolerable ; but nothing could 
be done. I knew not in what waters the ‘ Curlew ’ might 
then be rocking; but I could get back to the house I 
had come from. I yearned for it unspeakably. I thought 
of Valentine and his father, and wanted to be near 
them. If it had not been for the bluebells, and all that 
I had suffered in the wood where they grew, I almost 
believe that in that hour of misery I should have fled 
from London and wended my way back again into the 
neighborhood that I had so lately left. 

But I did nothing. 

Oh! how could I — how could I have come away to 
this desolate London ? I moved my head on the pil 
low, and became conscious that such sudden weakness 
had overpowered me as left me no strength to rise. I 
shivered, and faintly longed to draw more clothes over 
me, but could not. 

What can this be ? was my bewildered thought. Am 
I ill, and therefore nervous and terrified? or has this 


OFF TEE S KELL TO 8. 


458 


Budden knowledge of what it is to be desolate made 
nie ill ? 

Still lying quiet in my bed, with no power to rise, no 
po wer to shed tears, and feeling every limb grow colder, 
I heard Anne at last ; but the sound of her voice was 
dim. I thought she was outside the door, but opening 
my dull eyes I saw her leaning over me. I could then 
rouse myself sufficiently to say that I did not feel well, 
and she presently brought a cup of hot tea and some 
bread and butter to the side of the bed; and when I 
failed to raise my head, she said, tenderly, ‘ What is it, 
iny dear, sweet, pretty lady?’ and set down the cup, 
and, lifting me, laid my head on her bosom, began to 
chafe my hands and comfort me, drawing the blankets 
about me, and folding me in her strong motherly arms. 
Oh ! how comfortable was the feeling of nearness to 
something that lived and cared for me. I drew myself 
close to her, and held her fast. 

To my surprise her next words were, ‘You’re not 
afraid, ma’am, are you ? ’ 

‘I was afraid,’ I answered. 

‘You have no call to be, ma’am. I’ve been expect- 
ing the time when you would break down. You’ve 
been too busy by half, thinking of all manner of things, 
and running about here and there.’ 

I answered, ‘ I could not bear to be idle. 1 did not 
wish to think about living alone till I was compelled to 
do it.’ 

‘ Well, ma’am, but now you must think about it, be- 
cause it has begun. You’re not so badly off, are you, 
ma’am, as the disciples were when the Lord of glory 
told ’em He must leave them, and yet He said that He 
would send them a Comforter that should make them 
better off than they had been with Him? Well, ma’am, 
we’ve not lost anything so dear as the seeing and hear- 
ing of the Saviour on earth; and yet if we pray the 
Father, He will send the Comforter to us as well as to 
them. So we have no need to feel as if we were deso- 
late.’ 

I tried to assent, and held her fast lest she should go, 


454 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


for her words were healing medicine to me. She gave 
me the tea. ‘ Oh ! ’ I said, ‘ I don’t know how to live by 
myself, away from every one that used to caie for me.’ 

1 asked her to read to me. It was to be something 
in the Bible that would do me good. I let her make 
her choice, and to my surprise she began to read what 
I have always thought the most affecting chapter in the 
whole Bible, the first chapter of Ruth. It lost nothing 
by the grave, soft voice of reverent gentleness, nor by 
the slight provincial accent; and the moment the 
familiar narrative began, I felt such an anguish of sym- 
pathy with that ancient trouble and its mournful rela- 
tion that my desire to bear up utterly gave way, and I 
wept with such passionate distress as seemed to be my 
heart’s expression of its own sorrow, and of its aching 
over an earthly woe. 

‘Entreat me not to leave thee.’ No one had said so 
to me. Thinking of that, I wept yet more, and hid my 
face and sobbed with yearning unspeakable in the arms 
of my kind servant. 

‘ O Anne !’ were the first words I could utter, ‘I can- 
not help this.’ 

‘ No, ma’am,’ was her answer, ‘ and you should cry as 
much as you can ; that’s what you want ; and then you 
will be ever so much better.’ 

I did cry heartily, but did not feel much the belter 
for it, though I did feel grateful to think of the kind of 
maid whom I had secured — a woman who, now that I 
was ill, made herself at once my guardian and my com- 
forter. 

She stayed with me that night, and the next morn- 
ing, as my pulse was to the last degree feeble, she 
talked of sending for a doctor. That roused me, and I 
managed to get up and be dressed. That day, how- 
ever, was a very dark day ; all sorts of melancholy feais 
oppressed me, and anguish of heart at being so utterly 
away from every one who cared for me. 

I remember little that passed. I lay on a small, hard 
couch, and looked out into the mews, or listened to 
Anne’s reading an I talking. 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


455 


I could eat, I could sleep ; there seemed to be noth- 
ing the matter with me but sudden sinking of heart, 
which took away my bodily strength. 

On the third morning when I woke, aftei a miser- 
able night, I saw Anne enter with a little hamper. 
‘From Mr. Valentine, ma’am,’ she said, with a smile 
I felt roused to interest, and looked on while she 
opened it. 

‘ How did he know my address ? ’ I asked. 

‘ I wrote, miss : I said I would.’ 

She opened the little hamper. First came out a 
good deal of wet moss; then a glorious bunch of cut 
flowers, which it did me good to look at ; then a pot wdth 
a geranium, covered with buds, and protected by more 
moss; lastly, a paper bag of new potatoes, and a letter 
folded up in brown paper. To describe the good it 
did me to lie all the morning looking at and smelling 
those dewy flowers would be impossible. The letter 
too' amused me ; it was as full of nonsense as it could 
hold; and I was glad to perceive that, though Anne 
had given my address, she had kept my illness to her- 
self — thinking, perhaps, that it was my own affair, 
not that of my boy-lover, who all throughout his letter 
kept up his character to admiration, and concluded, by 
way of P. S., wdth a little sketch of a young man on 
one knee, presenting a huge nosegay to a girl. A cor- 
ner of the young man’s pocket-handkerchief protruded 
from his pocket, and was conspicuously marked Y. M. 

In spelling and puzzling over this letter I spent some 
time. 1 then sat up and enjoyed my delicate new po- 
tatoes, and was truly grateful to find that my strength 
and spirits were returning. 

I got up, came down-stairs, and enjoyed some tea. 
O the welcome change ! and O the peaceful sleep that 
followed and lasted all night long ! 

I cannot say that during those dreary days any dis- 
tinct trains of argument had passed through my mind 
which tended to prove to me that as solitude was my 
lot I had better be resigned to it ; but I now felt very 
much resigned. Very different from the despairing 


456 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


sensations of my first waking in that house was the 
waking of this sunny morning. Anne had done me 
good, time had done me good, and above all the com- 
forting reading and talking had done me good ; and in 
two days — that is before I had finished the last of my 
new potatoes — I was able to take a walk, and in less 
than a week I was beginning to look for some little boys 
who were obliging enough to want to learn Latin. 

I soon found that my only chance of earning as much 
money as I wanted was to be a morning governess, for 
all the parents to whom 1 applied wanted to have their 
children taken care of for the whole morning. From 
nine till one was the very shortest time that I was asked 
to spend with any family ; and for that amount of atten- 
tion twenty pounds a year was about the average sum 
offered. This money would not have enabled me to 
learn wood-engraving, for which I had already found a 
master. 

My dreams of giving an hour’s lesson a day were com- 
pletely overthrown ; but twenty-five pounds a year 1 
was determined to have ; and at last I got it, from a 
certain elderly widower, whose eldest son was ten years 
old, but delicate, and not fit for school. There were 
two other boys and a girl, and I agreed to teach them 
from nine o’clock till one. 

I had taken Anne with me, and she sat in the room 
where my elderly widower was conducting his exami- 
nation as to my qualifications. ‘ Is that your mother ? 
he asked v hen he had satisfied his mind. 

‘ No, my maid.’ 

Finding that astonishment at the notion of my hav- 
ing a maid was overpowering his weak faculties, even 
to the endangering of my prospects, I explained to 
him, that I possessed enough to live upon, but wished 
to learn an expensive art, and therefore must add to 
my income. 

As he did not recover from his astonishment, I next 
told him where I was living ; and after I withdrew, he 
came like a careful widower, to speak to my hostess, 
and having ascertained fi om her that what I had said was 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 457 

true, he left a message to the effect that the sooner I 
could begin my instructions the better. 

Accordingly I began to teach the very next morning. 
Anne went with me, and came to fetch me at one 
o’clock. I found my pupils very refractory at first; 
but by degrees I got them into good order, for happily 
there was no one to interfere. My employer was never 
at home ; indeed from the day when he engaged me I 
saw him no more ; and the nurse upheld my authority, 
and treated me with respect. 

For the first fortnight of my governess life I was too 
much tired during the afternoon to do more than take 
a quiet stroll with Anne, or lie and listen to her read- 
ing ; but after that, as vain regrets moved further into 
the background, I became stronger, and began to take 
my lessons in wood-engraving with great delight. But 
the philanthropy, the charity, the usefulness, where were 
these? I felt ashamed of myself sometimes when I 
looked at Anne’s quiet face, and considered how I had 
led her to believe that she should spend her life with 
me in works of charity and mercy. 

I had been considering that I should like to have a 
district of poor people, and when I mentioned it to 
Anne I found her in possession of some information re- 
garding the parish in which we were, and the clergy- 
man whose church we attended. Mrs. Bolton knew 
the clergyman ; he was in great want of ladies’ help, 
both in the Sunday-school and among the poor. 

Quite fearlessly and ignorantly, I immediately said 
that I would take a district and also a class in the school, 
and that Anne might have a class also, if she wished it. 
She was evidently delighted, and I felt pleased when I 
get off with Mrs. Bolton to call on the said clergyman, 
who proved to be a pleasant middle-aged man, and was 
quite willing to accept as much help as we could give; 
out shook his head at the notion of the district, re- 
marking that I was ‘ very young, very young.’ 

Mrs. Bolton re23lied that my maid would always go 
with me. 

‘ Well, well,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to debar you from 
20 


458 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8. 


the blessed office of ministering to others ; but the dis- 
trict just now vacant is down a close court ; the people 
are rough, poor, untutored ; and I can hardly accustom 
myself to the notion of a district visitor going about 
with a maid.’ 

‘ I thought it would not be right,’ I said, ‘ for me to 
go alone.’ 

He smiled. ‘I quite agree with you,’ he said; and 
he went on, ‘ I suppose I must allow it. I wish I could 
get older visitors, Mrs. Bolton. What sort of a person 
is this maid ? ’ 

Anne, who had walked with us, was sitting in the 
hall ; I had her brought into the room where w^e were 
talking, and the moment he saw her his countenance 
cleared. ‘You wish to have a class, I believe?’ 

‘ If you please, sir ; I should think it a great privi- 
lege.’ 

‘ I have a class of little boys that no one likes to take.’ 

‘ Any class you please, sir. I have no wish to choose.’ 

‘ Can you be punctual ? ’ 

Anne looked at me, and when I said that I would take 
care she had it in her power to be punctual, he an- 
swered, ‘ Give her the power, and I think she will find the 
will,’ and he held out his hand to shake hands with her. 

Our business was then arranged with, great ease : no 
more doubts whether or not I should have the district, 
no more hesitation about my class ; but I observed that 
though the instructions about these matters were os- 
tensibly given to me, they were intended for Anne’s 
edification quite as much as mine. 

1 cannot help laughing now when I think of the 
first visit we paid to that district. 

I put some buns in my bag for the children, some 
tracts for the parents, and took with me a pencil and 
some paper on which to write tickets for meat and 
bread. We were not to give away money. 

The first house in that court contained six rooms, in 
every room a family. Family No. 1, as we saw from 
the outside, had its lower panes stuffed with rags. We 
knocked at the door and entered. 


OFF THE SKELLIOb. 


459 


A villainous-looking woman was sorting rags on the 
floor, and three ill-favored girls were helping her; two 
sickly babies were crawling about half naked. The 
disgusting odor of that room cannot be conceived by 
any who have not entered such a one ; and no wonder, 
for they were presiding over a heap of damp and filthy 
shoes, a heap of greasy silk, a heap of old rope, of 
threadbare cloth, and, lastly, a heap of dusty tow that 
one of the girls was pulling out of the remains of a 
mattress. 

The woman came forward, gave me a suspicious look, 
and asked me what I wanted. 

I could scarcely breathe, partly for the vile smell, 
partly for the particles of tow. I was fain to ask her 
if she would like a tract. 

‘ Can’t read.’ 

I looked towards the girls. 

‘ None on ’em can’t read.’ 

‘Would they like to learn?’ 

‘No, they wouldn’t.’ 

‘ This is the district lady,’ Anne remarked. 

‘I knows ’em; often seen ’em with their worked 
petticoats. Never did me no good.’ 

‘Is there anything you’re in want of?’ I was fain to 
ask, and I fumbled for my pencil. 

‘ We should like a bit o’ tea and sugar.’ 

So I wrote a ticket, and we meekly withdrew. 

‘ O Anne,’ I said, ‘ I am sure I shall never dare to go 
near that woman without giving her something;’ and 
we were both so sick and faint with the odious fetid 
smell that we stood a few minutes on the stairs to re- 
cover ourselves before we knocked at door No. 2. 

Door No. 2 opened into a little room not eight feet 
square, and by the fire sat a cobbler at his work, mend- 
ing old shoes and burning the bits of leather he cut off 
from them. The smell of new leather burning is bad 
enough : but the smell of old leather burning is a smell 
to remember for ever. 

The man begged our honors to come in, and we con- 
trived to do so, bearing the atmosphere as well as we 


460 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


could. A snuffling noise arrested our attention ; it 
seemed to come from the wretched bed, and indeed a 
woman was lying there under the clothes, as we soon 
perceived by the thrusting out of a very dirty hand. 

‘Your wife is ill?’ 

‘No;’ begging our honors’ pardon, ‘she was just a 
little overcome with the dlirink^ and sleei)ing it ofi; the 
crathur. She been to Common Garden, she liad, and 
bi*ought a lovely barrowful of frew-it, and there it was.’ 

There it was, indeed, in baskets under tlie bed! 
The man drew out first a basket of green gooseberries; 
then one of mackerel, anything but fresh ; then several 
huge bundles of rhubarb ; lastly, some broccoli. 

Anne asked if they always kept the things they sold 
under the bed. 

‘ Sure-ly,’ said the man; ‘where would we find a 
better place ? ’ 

Hopelessly filthy and ragged he was ; the floor was 
caked with dirt. I should have liked to talk with 
him, but felt so much overpowered that I was fain to 
escape. Anne followed, looking pale and dispirited. 

When we knocked at the other rooms, our cobbler 
followed us to explain that the owners of the rooms 
were out. There was only one room occupied — that 
was the garret, for a woman was sick there. To lier 
room we bent our steps, and opened the door. No 
bed presented itself; only a heap of clothing, and 
shavings, and a mat. On it lay a woman with a brown 
face, dull eyes, and white lips. She was rambling in 
her speech ; and Anne, unable to breathe, rushed to the 
window and threw it up. The sweet sunshiny air came 
in, and the woman, who had just awoke, seemed at the 
sight of us to be trying to collect her poor scattered 
thoughts and speak coherently. 

She longed for a cup of tea, and Anne promised she 
should have one, — leaving me to watch while she ran 
out to buy some. 

In ten minutes she returned with some wood, lucifer 
matches, tea, sugar, a little loaf, and a mug with some 
milk in it. 


OFF THE SKELLIG8, 


•iGi 

She had bought the mug, and it was well she had, 
for there was no crockery visible on the bare shelf. 
She went and borrowed a kettle, made a fire, washed 
the poor creature’s face and hands, set her up, and 
brought her the tea. 

‘I don’t get no better,’ said the woman, moaning, 
and scarcely appearing to be surprised at what passed. 

‘ How can you expect it, my poor soul,’ said Anne, 
*when you’re so lost in dirt?’ 

The woman ate slice after slice of bread and butter, 
and drank several cups of tea with eager relish. Then 
I asked her if she would let me read a chapter in the 
Bible to her, and she consented ; but I seemed to read 
the chapter in a dream, for she had begged to have the 
window shut again, and the consequence was that when 
I had reached the last verse T fainted away, for the 
first and only time in my life, and became quite insen- 
sible. 

I suppose Anne dragged me out of the room, for 
when I opened my eyes I found that she was seated on 
the stairs with me on her knee ; and she was so pale 
that I wondered whether she would faint too. 

There was something so ridiculous in our situation 
that we both smiled. 

‘O Anne,’ I exclaimed, ‘I would not. be found here 
tor a good deal. This is too ridiculous. What shall 
we do?’ 

‘We certainly are beaten off the field this time, 
ma’am,’ said Anne. 

We got up and slowly went home, where we refnshed 
ourselves with a cup of strong tea and some bircuit. 
£ began to perceive that these people were sunk too 
iow to be reached by me. I could not hope to do 
more than give them bread and meat tickets, and I be- 
gan to wish I had chosen some other useful work in- 
stead of a district. 

Anne, however, was not of my mind. As she walked 
with me to give my pupils their lessons, she asked if she 
might visit the sick woman again. I said she might, 
and gave her half-a-crown ; whereupon she departed, 


462 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


with a serene look of joy on her sweet plain featuret^ 
All the real usefulness was evidently to be hers : I could 
neither clean rooms nor wash clothes, and both these 
th' s she meant to do. 



When she was describing to me in the afternoon how 
she had hired an iron pot of the cobbler for twopence, 
and how a woman who had a tolerably decent room had 
agreed to take in our poor patient for the night, and 
help to limewash the walls and ceiling, being paid for 
her work of course, Anne observed, ‘ I feel now, ma’am, 
as if we should be of some use.’ 

‘We!’ I exclaimed. 

‘ Why, ma’am, you support me, and my time is yours ; 
so if you choose to give it back to me, why you give it 
to them.’ 

I said I would give her all I could of her time, and 
five shillings a week of the ten I was earning by my 
little pupils. The other five went for the lesson in 
wood-engraving. 

In a few days Anne bought some coarse calico and a 
quantity of clean chafi* such as is often used in her part 
of the country to make beds of. She made the calico 
into a bag six feet long and three feet wide, and this 
when sewed up with the chaff in it was a clean and 
decent thing to lie on. The sick woman’s rags were 
then sold by her own consent, and we bought a very 
little cheap furniture for her; but Anne remarked of 
her that she was not poor, — at least she had no busi- 
ness to be poor, — for when in health she earned about 
eleven shillings a week. She was what is called a deco- 
rator. She made ornaments such as soldiers and foot- 
men wear, doing the work at her own place, and having 
plenty of clothes and food when in health, but never 
la\ ing anything by in case of illness. 

Ill about ten days Anne proposed to me to come and 
see her. No one could have recognized her. She lay 
pale and gaunt on her decent bed ; her room was sweet 
and fresh, her window clean. Anne left me with her, 
to go and look after another sick person, and the 
woman’s eyes followed her; then as she shut the door, 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


463 


they opened wide, and she said to me with a gesture of 
awe, ‘ Ain’t she a rare one, missis ? ’ 

‘Yes, she has been very kind to you, has she not?’ 

‘Been everything, she has; but for all that she telled 
me truly as it was you that pervided the brass.’ 

‘Yes, I gave her the money. I liked to do that, for 
I could not wash and clean for you as she could.’ 

‘No, ye couldn’t; I wouldn’t let you come inside my 
place now, if it wasn’t so clean.’ 

‘ Yes, it is fit for any one to sit down in now. I hope 
you mean to keep it so.’ 

^ Mebby I shall. Sh^ll turn her back on me if I 
don’t.’ 

‘ She would be sorry, no doubt, after all the trouble 
she has taken; and you know we ought to try and 
please those who have been good to us.’ 

‘Nobody never was good to me but her — and you.’ 

‘Yes, some One has been.’ 

‘ I expect you mean Ilim^ 

Before I had made up my mind what she meant by 
this allusion, which was made with a serious air, but no 
particular reverence, she added, ‘ I never heerd tell on 
llim before she came and read out of her book.’ Anne 
had told me of this, to me, hitherto unheard-of igno- 
rance, so I did not throw the wmman back by express- 
ing any amazement, but merely said that I had got a 
book like Anne’s and would read to her, if she pleased. 

‘ W ell, missis,’ she answered, ‘ I don’t mind if ye do. 
I’d heerd a good lot about Adam and Eve, ye know, and 
I telled her to read that, if so be ’twas there.’ 

‘Well, and what did you think of them?’ I inquired, 
hardly knowing how to meet such a degree of simple- 
ness and ignorance in a great learned city, which one 
does not find in the poorest country district. 

‘ Think on ’em! Well, you see, she couldn’t keep her 
hands oflT them apples, and got into trouble Serve her 
right, that’s what I think, for it wasn’t the hunger druv 
her to it.’ 

‘But you don’t think she was any worse than we are^ 
do you?’ 


164 


OFF TSE SKELLIOS. 


‘ N ot worse than such as we : but gentlefolks are di£ 
ferent.’ 

‘Yes, of course they are; for when gentlefolks do 
wrong they are worse than you are, for they are not 
driven by hunger, any more than Eve was.’ 

Tlie woman laughed, but not scornfully. ‘Well, 
missis,’ she said, ‘ I should fairly like to know what you 
was iver druv to that was bad, or her either.’ 

‘Well, I have told lies, and though 1 have always 
had plenty to eat and money in my pocket, I have often 
been discontented and wished for other people’s things.’ 

‘Call that bad! Lor’ bless yer, that’s nothing. 
We’re the real bad uns; a’most all on us is bad. We’re 
lost ; that’s what we are.’ 

‘ Then you are just what the Lord, the Saviour, came 
to save. He came to seek and to save that which was 
lost.’ 

‘Well now, if that ain’t a’most the very same the 
other one said. Ye both talk alike.’ 

‘ You ought to believe us, for you can see very plainly 
that we wish to be your friends.’ 

‘Ay! look what ye’ve done for me. Well, I’m wil- 
ling to oblige ye. Is that book what they read in 
churches, missis?’ 

‘ Yes, the same book.’ 

‘Don’t say so ! Well, I am willing to oblige ye. I’ll 
hear some more on’t, if ye want me to.’ 

Accordingly I read two or three of the parables to 
her. ‘And there was a certain rich man,’ impressed 
her strangely. I could perceive her secret wonder and 
curiosity. ‘ Is that the sort of thing you expected oui 
Lord to say ? ’ I ventured to inquire. 

‘ No, it ain’t, — no. Do they read that in the church f 
Do they read it upf^ 

‘Yes, certainly.’ 

Then she laughed with evident enjoyment. ‘Well, 
gihe said, ‘ it’s a queer thing for the gentlefolks to hear 
so ’tis.’ 

‘Yes,’ I answered; ‘but in this book you’ll find that 
the rich generally get the worst of it in many ways.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


465 


There was nothing about ‘ those rascally upper 
classes’ here; if there had been, I should naturally 
have chosen something different to read. She was 
sunk in her own opinion — could not see that she, and 
such as she was, were of any account, and required to 
be set in her place again, and made to understand her 
own value. 

By degrees, as Anne got one and another of these 
rooms into something like order, I was allowed to enter 
them. I set up a little club, and induced some of 
these people to pay money into it weekly, — many of 
them earned a good deal at different times ; but even 
this club had soon to be given up to Anne, for those 
men who were costermongers came home at night with 
their money, and if she would go for it then, she was 
welcome to it ; if not, a good deal of it went for 
drink. 

But I cannot chronicle this good woman’s deeds. 
She devoted nearly her whole time to this wretched 
court — nursed the sick, taught several young girls to 
work with their needles, and got the men to lay up a 
good deal of money. All this was set in train before I 
had been in London six weeks, and at that time I re- 
ceived my first letter from my uncle, and gave up any 
lingei-ing hope I might have cherished concerning the 
return to .a sea life, for once and for ever. 

There was very little in the letter; but I gathered 
that my uncle missed me, though he could not have me 
back again ; that he was very uneasy about Tom, who 
was not conducting himself so as to please him. There 
was no letter from Tom to me, and my uncle had not 
heard from Australia. 

If my relations took but little notice of me, Valen- 
tine seemed determined to take a great deal. He wrote 
'Continually, sent me plants, which were always more or 
less damaged in the transit, and soon faded in the Lon- 
don atmosphere, — sent me fish of his c wn catching, the 
latest news of Captain Walker and Lou, and the most 
authentic accounts of Prentice and Charlotte. For 
th(^ latter I did not care; but I cared for the letters, 
20 * DD 


466 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


and for the kind-hearted fellow who wrote them. It 
was sweet and flattering to me to think that there was 
somebody in the world who liked me well enough to 
wish to hear from me. 

Poor Valentine ! when I had been in London about 
six weeks he wrote to me in very low spirits to tell me 
that his lingering hopes of being allowed to go to Cam- 
bridge were all over ; for he had been spitting blood, 
and Doctor Simpsey had advised his father not to let 
him study, and to keep him at home. In his usual 
careless fashion he spoke of this symptom as if it was 
not of the slightest real consequence, and described his 
father’s depression and Giles’s anxiety as equally need- 
less and provoking ; in short, as a proof of what un- 
reasonable people they were. 

I believe the knowledge of his illness and the de- 
struction of his cherished wish made me feel more 
afiectionately towards Valentine. Indeed, he was the 
only person who took the trouble to bring himself be- 
fore me; and his circumstances naturally led me to 
think of him a good deal, and gradually to feel far 
more real regard for him than I had ever done when 
we were together. 

I led a singular life during that warm summer and 
autumn. I taught all the morning ; I sat at my wood- 
cutting in the afternoon, and took a stroll with Anne 
in the evening. Now and then I went into the dis- 
trict myself, and marvellous indeed were the changes 
_I beheld. No lady had hitherto been admitted within 
most of those dreary dens ; the district lady had been 
met at each door where the inmates were at home, and 
had been accosted with appeals for bread, or the fa- 
ymrite want, ‘ a bit o’ tea and sugar ; ’ but many of the 
parents were never at home during the daytime, — that 
18 to say, earlier than five or six o’clock, — and the 
children were generally turned into the streets to pick up 
whatever came in their way. There were thirty-four 
rooms in my court, which means that there were at the 
very least thirty-four families, some of them being large 
ones. The people were chiefly either decorators or 


OFF THE SKELLiijtS. 


4G7 


oot^tennongers. The former kept reasonable hours; 
but the latter, as they were generally out at Billings- 
gate or Co vent Garden by three o’clock in the morn- 
ing, frequently came home, slept away the hot summer 
afternoons (the afternoon being the slack time for their 
trade), and then rose and had a good supper, and if it 
did not rain and was sultry, sat in rows on the curb- 
stone in the court and gossiped till midnight. 

I have several times entered a room and found the 
whole family sound asleep at four o’clock in the after- 
noon. They seemed scarcely ever to trouble them- 
selves either to undress or to wash. The men would 
lie on the rags in their good hobnailed boots, and the 
women in their shawls just as they went out of doors, 
for they seldom wore bonnets. Not one family in the 
court, as far as Anne could discover, earned less than 
seventeen shillings a week. Of course, when what the 
children picked up is added to this sum, it is evident 
that there ought to have been no desperate poverty, 
excepting where there was a bad husband, — that is, a 
drunken husband, for nothing else is anything accounted 
of in that class of people. It includes everything that 
one would suppose to be unbearable — especially beat- 
ing of wives, for it was allowed on all hands that none 
but drinking men ever ill-used their wives to the ex- 
tent of beating or giving them black eyes. 

Till Anne went among them, some of them had 
absolutely never heard the name of the Saviour of 
mankind ; but I never heard of one who did not know 
that there is an Almighty God, and of but one person 
who could not say the Lord’s Prayer. 

They never came into contact with any educated 
person; they were literally the servants of servants- 
The barrow men and women supplied the lowest 
classes with their eatables. The decorators did not ap- 
pear to have direct intercourse with army clothiers, but 
with men who went round to collect and pay for the 
work as they finished it. 

I do not of course speak of the London poor in gen- 
eral, nor even of barrow-men and decorators in general^ 


468 


OFF THE SKELLIG^. 


but only of the few families who came under my own 
observation and that of Anne Molton. 

Anne Molton, as I presently found out, was a very 
remarkable woman; and as soon as I had fairly hum- 
bled my mind down to the point of being certain that 
she could do far better and far more for the poor than 1 
could, I took the lower place, and earned the money 
for her to spend. She was not hasty, but as oppor- 
tunity offered she won the goodwill of the ‘ pariahs.’ 
She helped many of them to limewash their rooms ; 
she taught the women to mend their clothes, and the 
girls to sew, to cook, and to wash. 

Washing, incredible as it may appear, was almost 
a new art in that miserable locality. It was the effect 
of the civilization she was introducing: for many of 
the men had absolutely no linen, and others had long 
disused it ; but she sold them shirts at the cost price 
of the calico, and then taught their wives to take pride 
in washing and ironing them, and in making more. 

It was the same with clothing for themselves and 
their children. Anne began by exhibiting coarse shirts 
made by herself and me. The women paid for them in 
small instalments of a few pence each week ; then sub- 
scribed for more calico, and she cut it out for them, and 
taught some of them to work. 

It was very striking to my mind to observe that, so 
far as that little court was concerned, almost all the 
misery, sickness, and poverty were owing to the faults 
of the people. They need not have been wretched. 

The filth in which they lived made them crave liquor 
to overcome the faint sensations that close rooms and 
exhausted air must always cause. Drinking, and so 
liaving not enough money left to buy wholesome food, 
was sure sooner or later to cause sickness, and then 
came poverty, bitter and almost hopeless, for they 
pawned all their comforts, and it was rarely that they 
raised the money to get them out. 

Many of them had no beds, — never had had. Their 
fathers and mothers before them had pawned them* 
the children, early accustomed to gather together the 


OFF TEE SKELLIQ8. 


469 


rags and sacks of shavings or old mats that formed the 
greater part of their furniture, would sleep on them 
without washing away any of the dirt that during 
many days they had contracted in dirty London. 

This state of things we could not for several months 
do much to remedy, excepting in the case of the sick 
woman, who, when she got better, never sank again 
into dirt and desolation, but earned her weekly money, 
spent it according to Anne’s advice, and lived decently. 

I think it was when I had learned wood-cutting 
about four months, that one day my usually silent mas- 
ter expressed himself greatly pleased with one of my 
performances, and asked whether I knew that I was 
learning the art much faster than most people did. 

As he had never volunteered any praise before, but 
generally looked at my drawings and my cuts with a si- 
lent elevation of the eyebrows, I had become accustomed 
to think that I surprised him by the slowness of my 
progress, and had risen early to work before breakfast, 
and had always spent two hours in the evening over 
my performances, in the vain hope that some day he 
would smile, instead of so provokingly indicating his 
amazement, and as I thought his discomfort. This 
remark astonished me, and I said that it was most un- 
expected. 

‘ A friend of mine,’ he continued, ‘ that I often show 
your proofs to, was saying, ma’am ’ — here he paused in 
his work to blow away some minute shavings which 
the tool was turning up, and went on with a deliberar 
tion which tired my patience greatly, — ‘ he was saying 
that he’d give you five shillings apiece for cuts like 
these, if you wanted to sell ’em.’ 

‘ Indeed,’ I exclaimed ; ‘ then wouldn’t it be better to 
let this friend of yours have them ? ’ 

‘ I wouldn’t,’ he answered, ‘ if I was you.’ 

‘ Why not, Mr. Curtis ? ’ 

‘ Why, miss, because they’re worth more.’ He con- 
tinued to examine my work with his glass ; then laid 
it down and slowly plodded through the rest of hia 
speech. ‘ You see, miss, you can draw, that’s where yoni 


470 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


talent lies. You’ve had good instruction too — con- 
sequently you’ve learnt no more of me than how to 
engrave your own drawings. There’s hardly a wood- 
engraver that I know who does that. If they get a 
book to illustrate, they employ artists to make the 
drawings, and then they engrave ’em, and so you see 
two people have to live — the artist and the engraver. 
Now you don’t draw first-rate by any means, but there’s 
a vast lot of drawings engraved that are worse than 
yours.’ 

‘ What do you advise me to do, then ? ’ 

‘ Why, ma’am, you want some first-rate drawing les- 
sons. You want lessons for the next six months.’ 

‘ I cannot afford them, Mr. Curtis.’ 

Mr. Curtis elevated his eyebrows and said no more ; 
but the next lesson he gave me he had a long fit of silence, 
and when he had set my work in order he grew red in 
the face and breathed heavily, as he often did when 
some mistake of mine, or some information to be given, 
compelled him to open his mouth. At last he said — 

‘My friend, miss, that I spoke to you about — ’ 

‘Yes, Mr. Curtis.’ 

‘ He is an artist.’ 

‘Is he?’ 

‘ Yes, miss ; he has a good many books to illustrate. 
He illustrated that book of arctic travels that I showed 
you, and that new work on natural history.’ 

I wondered what was coming, but to have spoken 
would only have put my master out. 

‘ He and I have been thinking of a plan,’ ^>ursued 
Mr. Curtis. 

‘ About me ? ’ I exclaimed. 

‘Yes, miss; you see you want drawing lessons. Now 
ho says, does my friend, that he would instruct you in 
drawing twice a week for six months, and let you see 
him draw on the block occasionally, if you’ll pay him 
with all the engravings you do in the six months.’ 

‘Would you advise me to accept his offer?’ 

‘ Decidedly, miss, if you mean to go on taking lessons 
cf me at the same time. He will lose by you the first 


OFF THE SKELLWb. 


471 


three months ; but unless we’re both very far out^ you’ll 
make it up to him the second, for you’ll know more 
of drawing by what he’ll teach you, and more of en- 
graving by what I shall.’ 

‘Then by that plan I make my drawings under his 
superintendence, and engrave th*^m under yours ? I 
still pay you half-a-crown a lesson, and I pay him noth- 
ing but the result of my work ? ’ 

‘ That is all, miss.’ 

‘ But if I agree to this, what do you think I shall be 
able to earn at the end of the six months if I spend 
about four hours a day on the engraving ? ’ 

‘ About two pounds a week, perhaps, ma’am.’ 

I took a few days to consider, and then decided to 
accept the terms offered ; but, though I am not by any 
means of an idle disposition, or languid in the prosecu- 
tion of my work, I certainly did feel so thoroughly over- 
come with fatigue sometimes, that I almost thought I 
must give my project up. I taught my little pupils 
from nine till one ; that was the easiest part of my day ; 
the wood-engraving demanded at the least two hours a 
day, and the drawing no less. During August and the 
two following months I could work an hour before 
breakfast, and also in the afternoon, and the wood- 
engraving happily could be done by candle-light, so 
that I still retained time for my walk and for a little 
reading. I had still only the five shillings a week that 
I earned, and did not spend in lessons, to bestow in 
charity. But Anne did such wonderful things with it, 
that I came to think it a respectable sura. And at the 
end of the first and second quarters, having spent in 
necessary outgoings the whole of my income to within 
a few shillings, I was fain to take Anne’s own view of 
the matter, and allow myself to hope that supporting 
her, and letting her devote herself to the poor, was my 
appointed charity. 

She still presided over my morning toilet, and she 
took me to, and fetched me from, my pupils ; she also 
walked with me when I went shopping or took ex- 
ercise : that was all. The rest of her time — that is, 


472 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


her morning and her evening — I gave her for the 
trict, for her club, her lending-library, and her evening* 
school. 

It was a great privilege, and I hope it raised the 
tone of my mind, to live with such a woman. Her 
contentment, her almost rapture in her work, were 
wonderful to see. She spent, I knew, at least half her 
wages on her charities; yet, though shabbily dressed, 
she was always neat, clean, and respectable in appear- 
ance; and the more she dwelt among the wretched 
hovels of the poor, the better and the stronger she 
seemed. This went on till the Christmas holidays ; for 
I had three weeks’ holidays at Chiistmas, and I enjoyed 
them quite as much as my pupils did — perhaps more. 

Strange to say, I was decidedly happy ; I am quite 
sure of it. I had no society ; but, then, I was not fit- 
ted to shine in society. I had no amusements; but, 
then, I had not a leisure hour in which I could have en- 
joyed them. I was absolutely so busy, that I had no 
time for regrets ; and when I went to bed, I was too 
tired to lie awake long and think. 

In saying that I had no amusements though, I am un- 
grateful. I had the amusement of Valentine’s letters, 
and very droll these were ; very boyish of course, and 
sometimes not flattering, but graphic and full of fun. 
They were not, I suppose, like the letters of a lover — 
at least, they were not at all like such letters as they 
appear in books, and I never saw but one in manu- 
script! Valentine, in his letters, often apologized to 
me for not having written so soon as he meant to have 
done, by acknowledging that he had forgotten, and 
sometimes he gave as a reason for writing that he sup- 
posed I should be uneasy if I did not hear fi'om him. 
Most natural things to be said by a brother ; but not 
very natural to be felt by a lover. I was, therefore, the 
more to be pardoned for not considering Valentine to 
be my lover, and for treating him, as I always had done, 
with fi’ank affection. 

Affection I certainly felt for him in no common 
degr )e. I was even willing to devote my life to him, 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 473 

tn any other way than the way which he still often pro- 
posed. 

One bitterly cold day, during my holidays, I had just 
dined ; Mrs. Bolton was gone out with her little boys, 
and Anne, during a brief period of sunshine, was try- 
ing on a new gown, which she and I had just finished, 
for my wearing. It was the first I had had since com- 
ing to London, and Anne was congratulating herself on 
the fit, when the servant came up and gave me a 
card — 


Mr. Valentine Mortimer. 

‘ He’s in the parlor, miss,’ said the servant, and dis- 
appeared. 

A visitor — a visitor from Wigfield, too — was such 
an unexpected thing, that I stood dumb and motionless. 
Anne took out my best brooch, put it on, and had 
smoothed my hair, before it occurred to me that I must 
run down to see Valentine. 

‘How do I look, Anne?’ I exclaimed, meaning, 
‘ Am I neat and fit to go down ? ’ 

Anne pulled a tacking thread out of my new gown, 
smiled, and said, ‘ W ell, miss, what with the dress, and 
what with the color in your cheeks, I never saw you 
look better.’ 

I understood that involuntary smile perfectly well, 
but had neither power nor inclination to remove the 
impression which had given rise to it. 

I ran down stairs, and there stood the great long- 
l<;gged fellow, with a boa round his neck. We shook 
hands, and launched into home talk directly. 

St. George, he said, had brought him up for some 
farther advice ; but he made light of his symptoms, and 
looked so well that I began to agree wdth him, and 
think there could not be much the matter. 

He soon began to examine the wood-engraving. 

‘ Then your brother is in London ? ’ I said, and I felt 
ratlier alarmed at the notion that he might appear. 

‘Yes; where do you think he is now? He left me at 


474 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


the door-step here, and went to inspect the copper that 
Anne is having built in the district.’ 

‘ Inspect the copper ? What does he know about it ? ’ 

‘ Oh, it’s just in his line ; he is learned, you know, 
about model cottages, and estimates for schools, and all 
that sort of humbug.’ 

‘You should not call it humbug. But how did he 
hear of it ? ’ 

‘ Why, you mentioned it to me, didn’t you ? — how 
your uncle had sent you ten pounds, and how Anne had 
hired a room for the neighborhood to haVe their wash 
in — do their ironing ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, I remember ; but I did not think I had said 
anything about the copper, and that it wanted inspec- 
tion ; but it does, for it smokes and won’t act. But 
how does he know the way to the district ? ’ 

‘ Oh, he has a natural genius for ferreting out dirty 
places. Dick has got a curacy in London — hard work, 
and no pay worth mentioning. It will be the delight 
of his little High-Church soul.’ 

‘It appears to me that you are deteriorating!’ 

Valentine did not honor this remark with any notice, 
but went on, — 

‘ Sister is going to send Dick a hamper almost every 
week. She is afraid he should be starved. That fellow 
is a saint ; but I don’t see why he need pat the heads 
of tlie dirty beggar children with his bare hands.’ 

‘ Does your brother ever do that ? ’ 

‘No. He is a saint too in his way; but, my dear 
Dorothea, there are simple saints in this worl 1, and 
there are knowing ones.* 


OFF THE HKELLIGS. 


475 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

• Let the mutton and onion sauce appear.* — Nicholas Nickleby. 

V ALENTINE an/ I were still cosily talking when 
there was a ring at the bell, and Mr. Brandon waa 
shown in. I had expected to feel very uncom- 
fortable, nervous, and bashful on the occasion ; but after 
the first moment I did not, for the simple reason that 
he showed all those feelings so strongly as absolutely 
to put me at my ease. 

I was surprised certainly ; but the relief was so great 
that I could not pity his discomfort, and I was glad to 
be certain, as I now was, that he was aware of the ab- 
surdity (to use no harsher word) of his last conversa- 
tion with me. 

He too seemed curious about the wood-engraving; 
and when Valentine had pushed him into a chair, and 
placed a block of wood before him, he recovered him- 
self so far as to ask some questions about it ; not of me, 
however, but of his brother. 

‘What’s this stuff for? It looks like whitening.’ 
‘Why, you put your finger into it, and smooth it 
carefully over the surface of the block to make it white.* 
‘ Well, I have stuck my finger in.’ 

‘ Smooth away then, old fellow.’ 

‘There — what next? But, Miss Graham, you see 
this : I suppose you don’t disapprove ? ’ 

‘No — I’ll answer for her — you don’t D. dear. 
Now, Giles, draw something on the white surface, and 
I’ll show you how to cut it out.’ 

‘You will, will you? I should hope I have sense 
enough to do that myself. Here’s a little digger that 
looks just suitable.’ 


476 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


Tie began to draw, and Valentine and I, seated on 
the sofa close at hand, went on talking at our ease till 
he suddenly announced that he had made a drawing. 

‘Well, dig it out then,’ said Valentine, ‘since you 
will have it that you know how. I say, D. my dear, 
what’s this thing? it looks like an empty oil-flask 
corked and turned upside down, and I declare it’s full 
of water.’ 

‘ It’s only to throw a light upon my engraving when 
I work by lamp-light. Look, here is a wide-necked 
bottle full of sand. I insert the narrow neck into the 
wide neck to make it steady, and set a candle behind : 
the result is that a beautifully clear and soft spot of 
light falls through upon the bit of the wood I am en- 
graving.’ 

‘ I wish you’d throw a light, then, on this fellow’s 
work. Look what he’s doing ! — he’s cutting away all 
the strokes and leaving the ground.’ 

‘Just what you were going to do yourself!’ 

‘ D., I shall learn to engrave — will you teach me ? ’ 

‘ I am not far enough advanced for a teacher.’ 

‘ W ell, but sit down and let us see you do a little 
piece.’ 

‘By-the-by,’ said Mr. Brandon, ‘have you, Valen- 
tine, made any way as concerns the antipodes ? ’ 

‘ No, ’ said Valentine, ‘ I haven’t settled the prelim- 
inary point yet. I was just going to introduce it when 
you came in.’ And thereupon he hung over my chair, 
and began to watch the progress of the graving tool, 
till, hearing a curious little noise behind me, I turned 
and found that he had taken Mrs. Bolton’s slate, where- 
on she usually wrote her engagements, had written a 
few words on it, and was holding it up for his brother’s 
inspection. 

As I turned I, of course, saw what Valentine had 
written; it was, ‘I could do it if you’d only go for 
another half-hour.’ 

Mr. Brandon presently rose with an indulgent smile, 
which, when he met my eyes, became a laugh, in which 
Valentine joined, and I also, though I hardly knew 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


477 


why: he marched out of the room, and Valentine after 
him. I heard some slight discussion. I also heard 
the words ‘ blockhead,’ ‘ goose,’ and ‘ silly fellow ’ used, 
but in a particularly good-humored tone, and imme- 
diately after the street-door was opened, shut again, 
and Mr. Brandon walked past the window. Wonder- 
ing what this meant, I presently opened the door, and 
there I found Valentine laughing in the passage. 

‘ Why don’t you come in ? ’ I said. ‘ And what have 
you done with your brother ? ’ 

‘He’s only gone out for an airing,’ replied Valentine. 

‘ Do you want to go too ? ’ I asked. 

‘No, I came to talk to you.’ 

‘ What, whilst I stand with the door-handle in my 
hand, and you lean against the wall, with your head 
among the great-coats. Ridiculous ! ’ 

Finding that he still stood and laughed, I shut the 
door; and he instantly opened it again, and looked 
into the room, exclaiming — 

‘Dorothea, did you know that Giles was going to 
New Zealand again next week?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘ W ell, he is, and he thought I’d better tell you.’ 

‘Tell me! — why?’ 

‘You need not look so astonished, so almost fright- 
ened. Why, because — oh, I don’t know exactly. Do 
you think New Zealand is a nice place ?’ 

' Yes, I have every reason to think so.’ 

‘You see, D., I have nothing; but Giles said that 
when he was in New Zealand he could buy me some 
land, if 1 in the mean time would learn farming. I 
hav(‘ been turning my attention to it.’ 

‘ What, is your brother going to take you with him?’ 

‘Oh, no; of course not. We should neither of us 
think of leaving this country permanently so long as 
my father is with us.’ 

‘Well, Valentine?’ 

‘ W ell, Dorothea, supposing that you liked a fellow, 
and his destination was New Zealand — would it make 
you like him less?’ 


478 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


‘No. 

‘Ah! but would it prevent your marryicg him?* 

‘ If I could make up my mind to marry “ a feUcno^ 
I sliould marry him wherever he was going.’ 

All this had passed as he stood holding the door- 
handle, his tall person being half in the room and half 
out. 

He now shut the door and came in and sat by me 
on the sofa, as if he had no more to say. But it ap- 
peared that he had, for the C07ners of his mouth re- 
laxed into a smile, and he exclaimed — 

‘What do you think that humbug Prentice has 
done ? ’ 

‘ Been plucked at Cambridge ? ’ 

‘ Oh, no ; that’s to come.’ 

‘ Broken off his engagement to Charlotte ? ’ 

‘ Why, not exactly ; but they’ve returned each other’s 
letters, because he says he finds that what he felt for 
her was merely friendship.’ 

‘ Oh ! indeed, like what you feel for me. But I’m 
sorry for poor Charlotte ! ’ 

‘Don’t be disagreeable; “comparisons are odious” 
(Sheridan). You need not be sorry for Charlotte, for 
she confided to me the other day that if she hadn’t 
been afraid of being laughed at she would liave broken 
it off long ago. It was such a bore to be always writ- 
ing to him. She never could think what to say.’ 

‘ Perhaps you can sympathize with her there.’ 

‘Not at all; on the contrary, I wish I hadn’t made 
so much of you at first, for now, however often I write, 
you are not grateful. “ It is good discretion not to 
make too much of any man at the first ; because one 
cannot hold out that proportion ” (Lord Bacon). Look 
it out when Pm gone.’ 

‘ Have you really and sincerely considered whether 
you can take to farming land, and whether you can 
live in New Zealand ? ’ 

‘No, D., I haven’t; but Giles has, and Giles has 
talked to me so that it would dc you good to heai 
him.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


479 

‘ You take things too easily. I wonder how you can 
live on in this half-heartied way.’ 

^ “ Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea ^ 
(the immortal Bill).’ 

‘ No ; but, Valentine, if Giles buys land for you, your 
destiny will be fixed, and you may find that you are 
not in your element, though the fishes unquestionably 
are.’ 

‘ I tell you, child, that they say nothing could do me 
80 much good as the pure air of that new country, and 
the being always out of doors in it. And if 1 stop 
here, I have nothing. I’m not to study ; and I have 
no capital to buy a partnership, so Giles takes me in 
hand. He provides capital for the future, and you in* 
terest for the present.’ 

‘ I thought that the study of farming was what you 
were to interest yourself in for the present.’ 

Valentine smiled. ‘Dorothea,’ he presently said, ‘if 
you won’t go out with me to New Zealand, I’ll ask 
Fanny Wilson. But I forgot to ask whether the cook- 
ery scheme answers.’ 

‘ I have not tried it, nor do I think I shall.’ 

‘Not tried it? I believe it was partly the account 
you gave of your intentions as to cooking, that made 
Giles think you would make such a glorious wife for a 
colonist.’ 

‘ I am sure he is very obliging ! But, Valentine, truly 
and seriously I do not wish you to joke any more on 
such a serious subject.’ 

‘ I will not, D. ; all I wish is that you should allow 
things to take their course, and not settle beforehand in 
your own mind that you will never marry me.’ 

He spoke so seriously now that I had no answer 
ready. 

In about two years, as he went on to say, he should 
be in a position to marry ; should have a home to ofiTer, 
and a brothei to back him. I could not, therefore, pass 
the subject off any longer, or treat his advances, young 
as he was, either as an impertinence or a joke ; and 
tliough I absolutely refused to allow him to cherish any 


480 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


hopes, I at last said that I ‘ would not settle in my mind 
beforehand not to like him,’ but I would let things take 
their course. At the same time, I told him carefully 
that I did not think I could ever love him well enough 
to become his wife. 

‘Well, but, D. my dear,’ he said, ‘supposing that I 
married somebody else, and Giles and I went to New 
Zealand, don’t you think you should feel rather deso- 
late ? ’ 

I confess that this view of the subject struck me 
forcibly, and for a few minutes I had nothing to reply. 
I had no friends^ and only one lover. If he withdrew, 
what a desolate lot would be mine ! 

‘ Well, D. my dear?’ he presently said, as if asking 
for an answer, but no answer was ready. It appeared 
that Mr. Brandon, so elaborately careful that I should 
not mistake his own intentions, had no wish to prejudice 
his brother against me ; but I felt that he must be 
quite as simple a saint as Dick a-Court, if he could 
think I was in love with him in June, and ready to 
marry his boy-brother in December, and I was offended 
at his wishing it. 

‘ Don’t you mean to say anything, Dorothea ? ’ con- 
tinued Valentine, laying his hand on mine with more 
manliness of feeling than he had yet shown. 

‘Yes; I wish to say that you are very young at 
present to make your choice for life, and I wish you to 
be absolutely free. I must be free also.’ 

‘ How long must I be free ? ’ 

‘At the very least, for a year.’ 

‘ And then you will either accept or decline me ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ It’s extraordinary that I cannot make you believe I 
care for you.’ 

‘ That is by no means ad I have to consider. I have 
to make up my mind whether I care enough for you.’ 

He laughed with a sort of exultant joyousness. ‘I 
shall not trouble my head about that,’ he exclaimed. 
‘ 1 am quite content on that head.’ 

‘ What do you mean, child ? ’ I made answer, and 


OFF THE^ 8KELLIG8. 


481 


then we bad a short contention as to the appropriate- 
ness of the epithet, and then as to his having any cause 
for the contentment he had expressed, and at last he 
said he had not meant to be rude. ‘ But only look,’ he 
went on, ‘at the letters you write me; sister says 
tJiey’re beautiful.’ 

‘ Oh, sister sees them, does she ? ’ 

‘Yes, sometimes.’ 

‘ Any one else ? ’ 

‘Well, I let that old hag, Dorinda, see one or two. 
J tho right I had better keep in her good graces, as you 
are so fond of her.’ 

‘You are the most extraordinary boy I ever heard 

‘ So St. George says. But don’t call me a boy ; it 
really isn’t fair.’ 

‘Well, man, then; but now I wish to say, quite 
seriously, that I never will write to you again as long 
as I live if you show my letters to any one whatever.’ 

‘ I won’t, then. I call that a gratifying prohibition.’ 

Before we had time to pursue this conversation any 
further, Mr. Brandon came in again, looking rather 
cold after his airing. It was getting dusk ; he sat down, 
and with great composure and gravity began to dis- 
course with me on indifferent topics, just as if he had 
not been sent out, and as if he did not perfectly well 
know what we had been talking about. 

I answered him with composure ; indeed, Valentine’s 
remarkable openness, and my want of any feeling but a 
sisterly intimacy towards him, made me, in spite of the 
matter we had discussed, quite devoid of conscious 
blushes or uncomfortable shyness. But I was aware of 
an eai thquake-like heaving in the spring of the sofa on 
which we were seated, and which tried my gravity 
sorely. Valentine’s sense of the ridiculous was very 
keen, and the next remark being addressed to him, he 
struggled for an instant to answer, and then threw him- 
self back in the corner of the sofa with such shouts and 
[»eals of laughter, that the little titter which I tried in 
vain to repress was no doubt perfectly inaudible. 

21 EE 


482 


OFF THE SKELLiea. 


St. George’s delicate endeavors to spare our blushes 
were quite irresistible to Valentine; it was such an 
unnecessary piece of refinement on his part, and the 
result of such a complete misunderstanding of us, that 
I could have laughed again, if I had not seen a sensitive 
flush mount up to his forehead: he was absolutely 
ashamed for Valentine, and he cast a deprecatory glance 
at me which seemed to bespeak my forbearance for 
him. 

That look recalled me to myself. I could not let St. 
George think I wanted any pity from him, or would 
accept fi'om him a mute apology for the open-hearted 
fellow who was indulging in this outrageous mirth. 

So I did not answer the look at all, but sat demurely 
by till Valentine had exhausted himself, and sat up 
again, first looking at his brother and then at me. 

It is not agreeable to be laughed at ; and St. George, 
when he became aware that Valentine’s mirth was at 
his expense, started up, pulled down his dark eyebrows 
with unmistakable signs of anger, and again darted a 
look at me which I was determined to misunderstand. 
So I allowed myself to smile, and said to Valentine, 
‘ How can you be so rude as to laugh at your brother ? ’ 

‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Valentine; ‘ and he doesn’t 
care.’ 

Mr. Brandon’s countenance, when he found that wo 
were both laughing at him, was worth the study ; he 
really looked unutterable things; but both he and Val- 
entine had admirable tempers, and when the latter said 
something apologetic, he passed the matter off with a 
joke, and on reflection laughed himself. 

‘ O Dorothea,’ said V alentine, quite regardless of his 
presence, ‘how nice you look! I did not think you 
were so pretty. How your eyes shine in the fireliglit — 
don’t they, Giles ?’ 

‘Yes,’ said the accommodating Giles, without even 
turning to look at me ; but I could see that in his turn 
he was secretly amused and surprised at our behavior, 
and as he sat before the fire in a musing attitude hia 
lips trembled with a little half-smile. 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 


483 


*Now don’t be shy, D.,’ continued Yalentine. ‘I 
wish you would not shrink yourself in the corner like 
a discovered fairy fluttering down into a convolvulus 
bell. Giles, I say, will you look here?’ 

‘Well,’ said Giles. 

‘ What do you see ? ’ 

‘ I only see Miss Graham.’ 

‘ And is that all you have to say about it ? ’ 

‘I have seen her several times before,’ answered 
Giles. ‘ I do not remark any very striking change.’ 

Being now goaded to desperation, I exclaimed that 
if they went on talking of me I should certainly go. 

‘What does it matter, D. dear?’ answered Valen- 
tine ; ‘ you are so far withdrawn into the shadow that 
we cannot see your face — only the flickering of the 
firelight on your hair. What a stunning hairdresser 
Aunt Molton is ! ’ 

‘ And what powers of observation you have ! ’ said 
St. George. 

‘ What do you mean, Giles ? ’ 

‘Merely that there is no change whatever in the 
dressing of the hair,’ he persisted. 

‘ I am sure there is ; now is there not, Dorothea ? ’ 

‘ I told you I must go, if you would talk in this way.’ 

‘Well, I’ll leave off if you’ll only answer this one 
question, and not turn away your face so shyly ; it’s no 
use, for now I can see the back of your head, and the 
hair is coiled up exquisitely ! What should Giles know 
about it ? He can’t bear girls.’ 

‘ Come,’ said Mr. Brandon, starting up, ‘ it is time we 
were off; and the cabman’s horse has been waiting till 
his cough will turn to a consumption.’ 

‘ I shall not go till she answers.’ 

* I declai e you are intolerable. Come, 1 will not see 
Miss Graham tormented : come away.’ 

‘Well, that is good. Let me alone, Giles. You, 
indeed, setting up for the champion of the ladies I — 
you ! Am I tormenting } ou, Dorothea ? ’ 

‘ Not particularly.’ 

‘Miss Graham is in a dilemma. She will not ans^’et 


484 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


you because that would be to proclaim me in the right ; 
whereas she would rather that you were. There now 
you know all, and she cannot deny it.’ 

I did not attempt to deny it. He had fathomed my 
thoughts, and uttered my reason aloud ; but my heart 
was sore against him, for he had deliberately pulled 
himself down and degraded himself from the pedestal 
of honor which I had fancied that he ought to occupy. 
No, it was not right to accept his championship ; so I hid 
my discomfort at Valentine’s pertinacity as well as I 
could, and when he said, ‘Now, D. dear, pray say some- 
thing ! ’ I replied, that as they were bent on going, I 
would say ‘Good night.’ 

‘ Good night, then,’ said Mr. Brandon, with careless 
good humor; ‘and good-by, for next week I sail for 
New Zealand, and I may not have time to call on you 
again.’ 

I felt a chill come over me, and held out my hand. 
He just received my fingers for an instant in his, and 
withdrew them. I shook hands with Valentine, and 
they went away. I heard their voices in the passage, 
and I heard Mr. Brandon speak to the cabman, as I 
still stood in the place where they had left me. 

As long as I had been busy, and he absent, I had 
been able to keep that scene in the wood at bay; now 
it had drawn near again, and I was ashamed for myself 
and for him. His grave steady face and the sudden 
sweetness and feeling of his smile kept me puzzling as 
to how it could be reconciled with a certain want of 
feeling which he had betrayed that evening. He had 
had the air of a good-humored man, who was rather in 
an absent mood and felt somewhat bored by the absur- 
dities of his two companions; this was after he had 
got over his first nervousness. 

Buoyant he was by nature and cheerful on principle, 
but that night he had shown a kind of indulgent par- 
tiality towards Valentine that he did not extend to me, 
w]:.om he scarcely spoke to; and this had lasted till, 
h? ring a good deal of business on his hands, he had 
nf l patience to let us detain him any longer. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


485 


I peiceived that it would be very convenient to that 
family if I would marry Valentine, and 2 jet him to be- 
take himself early to a fine climate and a healthy lot. 
I think that circumstance decided me to take my time! 
I did not want St. George to have the vlisposing of me, 
and to settle everything precisely as he chose. 

Though I had a right to the dining-room in the 
evening, I generally went up stairs and drank tea with 
Mrs. Bolton, when she chanced to be alone. That 
evening she and her children were out ; so when Anne 
brought in my tea I asked her to remain with me. She 
was too well bred to betray any curiosity ; but when I 
remarked that the gentlemen were looking well, she 
said she had seen Mr. Brandon in the district. ‘ I hap- 
pened to light on him,’ she said, ‘ and he sent for a brick- 
layer, and showed him what was the matter with the 
copper. Then he talked to the family in No. 4 — that 
set I told you I had hopes of: he told them about 
Canada ; said he would help them to go there if they 
liked. He’s a real gentleman. All the people that 
saw him were delighted with him.’ 

People who are destined to get the command over 
others often surprise one by having the last style of 
manner that one could expect. They are not in the 
least alike either, as I have had opportunity of judging. 

I understood from Anne that the family in question 
had politely assured him that they would do as he 
pleased. His behavior to the women was always charac 
terized by a peculiar air of courteous deference, a sort 
of homage to their sex, which was evidently natural to 
him, but which placed them very much at his mercy, 
because it made them so bashful ; but the men he often 
treated with a lordly air of superiority, much as a mas- 
ter does his school-boys, and it almost always seemed 
to answer. It was only at Wigfield that he had evei 
been hissed or made game of, but then that was the 
neighborhood in which he had played all the pranks of 
his boyhood, where, in fact, as his old tenant expressed 
it, ‘he had chivied the pigs.’ 

He went into the district the next morning, and, with 


486 


OFF THE 8KELLT0S, 


Annx3 to help him, found out several little reforms that 
were wanted, and set them on foot; then he pounced 
upon two half-staiwed young needlewomen, and set 
them to work upon making outfits for themselves, in 
ease, as he informed them, they should wish to go to 
Canada, which in the end they did wish to do. 

In the meantime, Valentine came to me in i ^ery 
sulky humor, and asked me to give him a lesson in 
wood-engraving. I inquired what was the matter? and 
he told me that ‘ Sister ’ had written to St. George, and 
said he was not to allow him (Valentine) to be always 
philandering after me, unless Anne Molton went with 
us ; it was not proper, and she wouldn’t allow it. ‘ And 
he’s actually coming here to-day, and, in fact, rather 
often,’ continued Valentine, ‘because sister says he 
must ! It will be a horrid bore for him, and we sha’n’t 
have half the fun we might have had.’ 

It was a very foggy morning, and I could with diffi- 
culty see to go on with my engraving. I felt deeply 
obliged to ‘ Sister ’ for having indicated her wishes, and 
so let me understand what was customary, for I knew 
very little; but I did not let Valentine see this, and I 
could not help feeling exceedingly amused when I saw 
Mr. Brandon coming up the steps looking quite out of 
countenance, and evidently feeling his ridiculous po- 
sition, and also that he was anything but welcome. 

As long as he was nervous I was quite at my ease, 
but the fog got so yellow and so thick that I was obliged 
to leave off my work ; and while I was putting the tools 
away and telling them how rich I should be when I 
began to earn the two pounds a week that had been 
promised me, I observed Valentine’s spirits fall; he 
almost groaned. ‘You can’t think,’ he said, ‘how mis- 
erable it makes me to think that I was the person who 
induced you to take Anne Molton, and now you spend 
your life in earning money for her to lay out.’ 

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I am her servant. But how do 
you know that I shall not be appointed her attendant, 
her minister, or whatever you like to call it, in the next 
world ? I seem to suit her so well that I often think 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S, 


487 


this will be the case ; and if so, it is just as well that I 
should learn to understand her — that I should pre- 
pare.’ 

‘You are setting yourself against everything reall} 
high in a woman’s lot,’ exclaimed Valentine, as angrily 
as if he had had a full right to lecture me, and as 
gravely as if he had been a man of forty. ‘You are 
getting so religious that there will soon be no living 
with you : you are worse than Dorinda.’ 

‘ Gently, gently,’ said St. George, but hardly in a tone 
of remonstrance, rather as if he took Valentine’s part. 

Valentine heaved up a great sobbing sigh. ‘Hang it 
all ! ’ he said under his breath ; then he walked to the 
window, and St. George settled his face into an expres- 
sion of almost supernatural gravity, as was the way with 
both that mother’s sons when they felt inclined to 
laugh. 

‘ You’re always trying to elevate me,’ he continued 
in a deeply injured tone, and the fog, by one of those 
sudden changes never seen but in London, grew 
suddenly transparent, and the great copper-colored ball, 
the sun, glinted on his handsome young face. ‘ I don’t 
mind letting you do it, for a consideration,’ he went on ; 
‘ but I’m not going to be elevated for nothing.’ 

‘You talk of yourself,’ I replied, ‘as if you were a 
mere bubble, and I could blow you up as out of a pipe ; 
why, even if I could, you would soon come down 
again.’ 

‘You write to Dorinda about wishing to lead the 
higher life,’ he went on sulkily ; ‘ she told St. George 
that you did.’ 

‘ But you don’t think that I am leading that higher 
life now, do you, or even a specially religious life ? ’ 

‘ Yes, of course I do.’ 

‘ I am not, then — not at all ; though it is true that 
I came to London hoping to do so. I am not living in 
the same world that Anne does, but I am conscious that 
there is such a world.’ 

‘ You spend all the time and money you can on the 
poor,’ he replied. 


488 


OFF THE 8KELLIGS. 


‘ But I could do that with pleasure if there was no 
God. I like to earn money. I leave the trouble, the 
fatigue, all the expenditure of feeling, and the wearinesa 
of failure to Anne. I cannot raise common work into y 
religious act ; on the contrary, I bring down what might 
be high work to my own level.’ 

‘ I don’t know what you mean, D.,’ he answered with 
in-itation. 

If his brother had not been present, I should have 
reminded him that he had no right whatever to make 
me give an account of myself ; but not liking to snub 
him before his elder, I answered with docility — 

‘ I mean that I cannot make my wood-engraving 
religious work : it pleases me in itself. I mean also that 
I absolutely must have some active employment. I 
am so devoid of friends, so without society, so away 
from what I love — that I should pine away if I had 
nothing to do. I mean, further, that if I could get 
back to the “ Curlew ” to-morrow I should be deeply 
delighted — I should think it quite right to do so.’ 

‘ Oh,’ he answered, brightening suddenly, as the day 
did, his smile and the sunshine beaming out together; 
‘ to the ‘‘ Curlew,” or to any other place, or any other 
lot, that you thought was happier than this.’ 

I felt very much disinclined to answer, the lot he 
meant being so evident ; but as he stood before me 
waiting, I at last brought myself to say, ‘Yes.’ 

Thereupon he moved nearer to the window and stood 
gazing out, while the remains of the fog moved bodily 
westward, before a mild east wind; then, to my sur- 
prise, taking out a letter, he said to his brother, ‘ Don’t 
you think I might get the Indian stamp and post this 
now the weather looks quite clear?’ St. George 
thought he might, and Valentine, giving him a signifi- 
cant look, went out, presently shut the street-door 
behind him, and I found to my discomfort that I waa 
going to be left alone with his brother. 

But it was light now, so I began to arrange my 
wood-engraving on the table, which being set in the 
window, with a low opaque blind in front of it, would 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


489 


enable me to sit with my back to him, and also have the 
relief of something to do. 

It was evident that he was to communicate some- 
thing to me, but he was in no hurry ; he sat absolutely 
silent for several minutes, then he said, ^Valentine feels 
hurt because he cannot convince you of his devoted 
attachment.’ 

Devoted attachment ! what ridiculous words to apply 
to the Oubit’s feelings ! 

‘ Oh, does he ? ’ I answered ; ‘ I am sorry he should be 
vexed ; but perhaps, if I am not convinced — ’ 

‘ W ell. Miss Graham ? ’ 

‘ And perhaps if I cannot feel at present that I ever 
shall be convinced, it would be very unkind in me to 
let him make any mistake on that head.’ 

He seemed so nervous again that I became quite at 
ease ; and when he said, in a bungling, awkward way, 
that he should be very glad to do anything he could in 
the matter, I was so surprised, considering Valentine’s 
youth and uncertain prospects, that I could not help 
answering, ‘ But does it not strike you as rather odd 
that, if he cannot manage his own affairs himself, ho 
should think any one else can manage them for him?’ 

A long silence followed, but he had seemed to treat 
the matter so seriously that I was less able than usual 
to consider it a joke, and at last I said, ‘ And even if at 
the end of a year or two he did still wish to engage 
himself to me, which is very doubtful, I have never re- 
ceived the least intimation from his father or Mrs. Hen- 
frey that such a thing would be agreeable to them.’ 

I certainly expected some sort of answer then ; even 
if the old man had never formally said that he approved, 
I supposed Mr. Brandon would say that no doubt when 
consulted he would give a willing assent. But no, he 
said nothing of the sort ; he said nothing at all ; so I 
thought I could try to investigate this matter through 
Valentine — because, if they did not approve, I could 
retract what I had said about waiting a year, and give 
him a formal dismissal at once. 

When St. George did speak it was to say something 
21 * 


490 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


flattering as to V alentine’s improvement under my in* 
fluence. ‘ But,’ he added, with a certain deference and 
hesitation of manner, ‘I do not see what object you 
could have had in talking to him as you did this morn- 
ing.’ 

‘ I wish to disavow all unreal things. I do not set 
myself above Valentine, and I meant him to know it.’ 

‘ But I consider that aspiration alone takes you quite 
out of his world : the highest thing he aspires to, is to 
you.’ 

‘ I have aspiration, certainly, but I do not know that 
it is of the right sort. Did you ever hear Tom talk on 
this very subject, — this which Valentine called “the 
higher life ” ? ’ 

‘Yes, I have. Graham has many strange feelings. 

‘He believes that there is a God,’ I answered; ‘he 
believes that certain men have been, certain still are, 
privileged to have dealings with Him — to be conscious 
of intimations from His Great Spirit. He feels an in- 
tense intellectual curiosity about this.’ 

‘Yes, he talked with me, and said he knew this mat- 
ter was rarely believed or considered by those who 
have no conscious experience of it ; he did believe it, 
and he wondered at the indifference and incredulity of 
outsiders : he does not confound it with the prickings 
of conscience, or with that occasional drawing of men’s 
minds in particular directions, which may be called “ the 
S2:>irit of God moving ” in the thoughts of the nations.’ 

‘ No ; and it is agreed that people cannot reach up to 
have communication with that divine life only through 
their minds. They cannot understand those astonish- 
ing and difficult things alluded to in some of the 
Epistles, for instance, only by learning, and from with- 
out ; but don’t you think it natural that those who are 
not irreligious, only unreligious, should want to search 
into this matter, and understand as much of it as they 
can?’ 

‘It is natural for a man so remarkable as your 
bi other; but you cannot be describing yourself, for you 
have no reservations. You would be willing to be 


OFF THE SKELL108, 


491 


taken into that great life, whatever it might cost you. 
You are attentive and obedient to what you know 
of it.’ 

‘Yes; but I often feel as Tom does, and no doubt 
because he put it into my head, that quite apart from 
devoutness of hearts, or reverence, or religion of any 
sort, there is enough in that subject to give me a keen 
interest in those who belong to this Kingdom. I hke 
to wait upon Anne on that account.’ 

‘ Do you think, then, that when David said, “ My soul 
is athirst for God,” it was not necessarily a religious 
longing that he felt ? ’ 

‘ No ; but yet it seems to me that such a thing is pos- 
sible.’ 

‘ Possible that life may be drawn towards its source. 
Yes ; but not that the perception of such drawing 
should be without a sense that the life which draws is 
also Light, and that it is pure. Then, if man will let 
himself be drawn, if he desires to be drawn to this 
light and this pureness, that is religion.’ 

I saw Valentine coming back again. He had a card 
in his hand, and while he waited till his knock was 
answered, he drew my attention to it, then laid his 
hand on his lips. When he entered, he, however, did 
not say anything concerning his devoted attachment, 
but, leaning over my work, put the card before me. On 
it was written, ‘ Invite us both to tea to-morrow.’ So, 
after a few minutes, I did as requested, and told them I 
drank tea at half-past five. 

Valentine arrived the next day at five. I think by 
that time he had nearly forgotten his annoyance at our 
not being engaged. He was in high spirits, and said 
audaciously, ‘ I shall be very hungry, D. dear. Do you 
mind accepting this little offering ? ’ and he laid on the 
table a paper parcel, containing three red herrings and 
a lot of turnip radishes of the very largest size over 
seen. I believe they really were young turnips. I was 
a good deal surprised when he added that he was 
always so hungry, and he knew I should have provided 
nothing but thin bread-and-butter. I knew that he 


492 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


and St. George would dine together at their hotel about 
eight o’clock, but when Valentine begged me not to tell 
his brother, ‘because Giles would think it so odd,’ I 
consented, and he seemed to me to be more of a boy 
and less of a lover than ever. 

He then withdrew and had a long consultation with 
Anne in the passage, during which I heard his chuck- 
ling laugh repeatedly. 

‘ Why did you get those horrid radishes?’ I asked^ 
when he returned, for I was sure there was some mis- 
chief brewing, 

‘Only for a relish,’ he replied. ‘They were grown in 
Cornwall, and are not common at this time of the year; 
but there’s no need to tell Giles that. Giles is so 
shocked at the state of things here — the queer things 
in this room, the shabby furniture. Here he comes! 
“Oh, what a delicious go!” (Dickens). Yes, here 
he is.’ 

‘ Shocked, is he ? ’ I said, as he rang at the bell. 

‘ Of course. What else can you expect from a fel- 
low that employs such a tailor ; a fellow that buttons 
his gloves ? ’ 


‘ I wish you were not so untidy ; I wish you would 
button yours,’ I said, and I looked round. Two vases, 
clumsy and made of Derbyshire spar, stood on the 
chimney-piece, with tall bunches of dried grass in 
them ; in the middle was a little house made of shells, 
such a house as one buys at seaside places for a half-a- 
crown ; it had small glass windows. The table was 
covered with a dark, glossy material, like oilcloth, but 
not so stiff. The carpet had hardly any pattern left, 
and one could see the tow it was woven on ; the cane- 
bottomed chairs, though clean, were exceedingly ancient 
and shabby. 

Enter Mr. Brandon, and the repast at his heels. 
First a tea-tray, with some common crockery on it ; 
more of it seemed to be cracked than was usually the 
case. The large Britannia-metal teapot that I generally 
had to use was there in full force, with its black handle. 
It had a rather battered effect, and a deep dint on one 


OFF THE SKELLIQS. 


493 


fide ot it was on this occasion turned towards the com* 
pany. 

But when the stout Staffordshire servant entered 
again, with a smoking hot dish of red herrings and the 
big turnip radishes, which she set down on the taV.e 
with a bang, and flanked with a very extensive set of 
castors, St. George glanced flrst at her and then at tlio 
viands, and seemed for the moment overcome with sur- 
prise. Indeed he found it impossible to hide his dis- 
comfiture, almost his dismay. Valentine was exceed- 
ingly happy; his countenance beamed with joy, as he 
stuck a steel fork into the biggest of the herrings, and 
mildly put it on his brother’s plate. 

‘D. dear,’ he continued, constituting himself master 
of the ceremonies, ‘will you take any — any fish? No? 
Well, if you are not hungry, it was the more considerate 
of you to make these kind yet simple preparations.’ 
He then sat down beaming, and began to despatch his 
herring, while St. George, after a momentary hesita- 
tion, went at his like a man, being for once quite taken 
in by the Oubit, and possibly thinking that his ‘ de - 
voted attachment’ made him regard the repast as 
delicious. 

I then lifted the big teapot, and helped them both to 
tea, when Valentine, having despatched his herring, 
helped himself largely to radishes, and began to crunch 
them audibly. 

‘ I always knew,’ he said quietly, ‘ that the faithful 
were very fond of fish, particularly salt? fish ; but, Doro- 
thea, 1 hope you do not deny yourself fresh meat al- 
together ? ’ 

‘ Of course not,’ I exclaimed. 

St. George looked aghast. 

‘Dorinda does not,’ continued Valentine. ‘Now, 
then,’ he added, with a look of admonition at hia 
brothel’, ‘you’ll take some radishes, of course.’ But 
here St. George struck work, trying hard, however, to 
appear as if he took the whole thing as a matter of 
course. On this the ‘graceless youth,’ going a little too 
far, remarked, with a pious air, that this simple style of 


494 


OFF THE 8KELLI08, 


li\ing was far more consistent with my opinions than 
the usual dinners at. Wigfield; ‘and 1 only wish,’ he 
audaciously went on, ‘ that every poor person in this 
great metropolis had enjoyed this day an equally abun- 
dant and wholesome meal.’ Wliereupon St. George, 
r )using up suddenly to the consciousness of some mis- 
chief or other, and not sure, perhaps, whether one or 
both of us were making game of him, began to inquire 
concerning the novel, and punished us by giving such 
a succession of ludicrous scenes for it, that we both 
laughed till we were quite faint. 

The next morning Miss Tott appeared, and sweetly 
and tenderly proposed to take me to the Crystal Pal- 
ace. Valentine soon came in, and did not deny that 
Giles had arranged the matter. ‘ He could not take us 
himself,’ said Valentine, chuckling; ‘he says it is too 
much to expect of him ; it would make him feel such a 
muff; besides, he hasn’t time.’ 

Miss Tott bore us off: how happy she was, how 
sweetly she sympathized with our supposed feelings! 
Kind creature! I was terribly ashamed of Valentine 
that day, for, after we had been some time in the Pal- 
ace, looking about us below, we went up into a gallery 
where there were various stalls heaped with arti- 
cles for sale. Some were set forth as bankrupt stock, 
some as having been saved from a fire, and all had sen- 
sational labels on them : ‘ Observe the price ’ — ‘ Dread- 
ful sacrifice ’ — ‘ Must be cleared out this day ’ — ‘ Given 
away for four alid 9J,’ &c., &c, 

I saw Valentine buying something of the smart 
young saleswomen ; but it was a ‘ people’s day,’ and 
there Avas a crowd, so Miss Tott and I moved on ; but, 
after a time, I thought that somehow we seemed always 
to be taking a knot of people after us, and it was not till 
we had got down-stairs again, and were among the 
tropical plants, that I saw, to my dismay, as Miss Tott 
left Valentine’s arm, and sailed mildly on in front, a 
good-sized placard, w^hich was pinned on her back, and 
bore this inscription ; ‘ No reasonable offer refused.’ I 
darted forward; it was some minutes before I could 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


495 


f it the placard off without attracting her attention, but 
managed to do this at last, and to hide it. 

Valentine was perfectly grave, and I tried to get 
away, but the people about us still insisted on being 
amused. 1 observed that some, when they passed, 
turned round to laugh, and others moved on behind us 
and noticed our behavior. 

In the meantime I did not dare to snub Valentine, 
because Miss Tott was so close to us ; I could not even 
have the pleasure of telling him that this was a stale 
joke, and I had heard of its being perpetrated before. 
However, he very soon received a snubbing that none 
of us at all expected, and Miss Tott never understood 
more of it than she saw before her eyes. 

A respectable elderly man, in a coachman’s livery, 
came up, and accosted him with great civility. 

‘ Excuse me, sir, but young ladies didn’t ought to be 
made conspicuous in public places.’ 

The Oubit had nothing to say for himself. 

‘ I’ve been following you some time,’ continued this 
specimen of nature’s gentleman, ‘ to let you know, sir, 
that when the girl you bought that placard of saw 
what you were doing with it, she snatched up another 
and pinned it on your own coat-tails ; and there it is 
now, sir. Good morning.’ 

There it was sure enough, and we unpinned it, amid 
the laughter of the bystanders, some people, looking 
down from the gallery, greeting Valentine at the same 
time with an ironical cheer — 

‘This handsome article, very little damaged, going 
for three and sixpence. Worth double the money.’ 

After this I declined to take any more excursions 
with Valentine; but he came daily to see me, and was 
very full of fun, evidently feeling also that ease about 
his future prospects that one often sees in the younger 
and favorite members of a large family. 

To Giles his welfare was evidently an object of the 
deepest solicitude. Why these two brothers concen- 
trated so much of their affection on each other, nearly 
to the exclusion of some who were equally related to 


496 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


them, I did not understand ; but I had long seen it plainly, 
Liz and Lou were nothing to Giles. Sister was noth- 
ing to Valentine, in comparison with the feeling of 
each for his brother. 

They had set their hearts, as I found from Valentine, 
on always living near each other. Giles had consented 
to expatriate himself for Valentine’s sake; he had 
enough to live on anywhere, but Valentine was with- 
out patrimony, and, as he easily made me perceive^ 
there could be no opening so favorable for him as to 
have land to cultivate, and sheep to feed, with his 
brother at hand to advise and help him. 

I did not believe that I could ever accept Valentine, 
and I told him so almost every day ; but he was quite 
imperturbable, made the best of it, and generally re- 
plied, with great composure, that time would show. 
At the same time he did not fail to point out to me how 
TIRESOME it would be, and how completely it would 
put out both him and Giles, if I failed them at the last 
minute. 

‘ How could that be ? ’ I once asked. 

Why, Giles meant to take him out, and settle him 
first, with his wife, and then come home and get a wife 
for himself. 

‘Dear me! you seem to have made a gi'eat many 
arrangements.’ 

‘Yes; and you see how little fun there would be in 
marrying a girl whom I did not thoroughly know, and 
who would be ill, perhaps, at sea through half the voy- 
age, and be frightened. I should be so dull, too, when 
I was left there with her, and Giles was gone. W 0 
should have no recollections in common. Besides, I 
love you, I tell you ! Don’t I say so every day ? ’ 

‘Yes. Well, I hardly know which of you is the 
oddest of the two ! And so your brother wants me to 
agree to all this ? ’ 

‘Yes, he told me to lay it well before you, that we 
might be sure you understood about my having noth- 
ing here ; and he said I should be a lucky fellow if I 
secured you.’ 


OFF THE SKELLKJS, 


497 


‘ And he expects that you will ? ’ 

‘Well,’ said Valentine, ‘if you come to that, why 
shouldn’t I?’ 

Here, of course, we both laughed. 

‘You see, D.,’ he continued, ‘ there are two reasons 
why it’s almost sure to come right ; I want you, and 
nobody else does.’ 

This was quite true: but it did not diminish the 
oddness of the whole thing. St. George seemed iii- 
Blinctively to feel that the Oubit wanted elevating, 
wanted deeper feeling, wanted tenacity of purpose, 
and he thought he must get these from me, and from 
marriage and manly cares. From many things that 
Valentine said, I observed that Giles thought he was 
sure to put his neck under the yoke of matrimony as 
soon as he possibly could ; he, therefore, wished him to 
do it wisely, attach himself to a prudent person, who 
would amuse him first, and guide him afterwards. 

Of course, I did not like this idea : I could not help 
feeling a pang at the notion of his making a conven- 
ience of me. There was still a great deal about him 
that I found attractive ; I could have been docile to 
almost any wish of his but this, that I should learn to 
love a man whom I was to govern. I could not bear 
him to treat me with courtesy or deference, because I 
considered that he could have no real feeling of what 
was due to womanhood. I liked Valentine’s open rail- 
lery and boyish brusquerie far better, and though he 
and I constantly sparred and argued when we were 
alone together, I treated him with consideration on 
those rare occasions when his brother was present, not 
only because he was more civil then, but because I felt it 
to be his due. 

But I liked Giles so much that I could not bear to be 
obliged to disapprove of him. He had a smile that 
was worth watching for, it was so sunny and tender, 
such a strange contrast to the grave cast of his features, 
the steady manliness of his demeanor, and the some- 
what ‘ masterful ’ way in which he worked and ruled ; 
but this same smile was quite consistent with utter ig- 


498 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


noring of other people’s feelings. 1 had come across 
his path, stood near to him for a moment, and when he 
found it out, he had pushed me somewhat roughly 
away. Still he meant to be both just and kind; there 
was even something elaborate in the way in which ho 
set forth the Oubit’s good qualities, and he evidently 
spoke highly of me to him. 

When some affections which we would almost give 
our lives to keep warm and fresh grow cold in spite of 
cherishing, what a perversity of nature it seems that 
others can thrive, and live, and even grow, when they 
have nothing to feed upon, and every reason to fade 
and die! 

I had never loved Tom so much as during that 
strange summer and autumn. He never took any 
notice of me, but I knew very well that he often 
thought of me. As for St. George, I was almost sure 
that, besides taking Tom away from me, he had got a 
hold on him, and attracted his regard for himself. I 
felt that his influence on the whole must be exercised 
with the best intentions, and the power that I knew he 
had over this much-loved brother made him more im- 
portant to me. And now there was the Cubit — very 
young certainly, but remarkably handsome, frank almost 
to a fault, absolutely, as he always told me, devoted to 
me, and desiring nothing so much as to spend his lifli 
with me. I liked him very much, but I could not be- 
come enthusiastic about him : my affection for him did 
not grow, and I was ashamed to feel sometimes that he 
almost bored me. 

Well, but the visit came to an end suddenly, and I 
stiaightway missed his pleasant company. Mr Morti- 
mer had a stroke of illness; the brothers were sum- 
moned home. St. George gave up his contemplated 
voyage, and he and Valentine both hurried to the old 
man’s side. 

I often look back on the year which followed, just as 
I do to the years passed at school, without dwelling on 
particular days, but as one uneventful march of slow 
development. Anne Molton was a greit comfort to me. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


499 


and 1 was just the mistress to make her happy. She 
and I became fast friends, in the truest sense of the 
word. She could not earn money, and 1 did not know 
how to spend it. I never attained to the art of doing 
anything for the poor with my own hands. I could not 
influence the men ; and the women in most cases did not 
like me to enter their rooms unless they had had notice 
of the visit, and everything was in decent order. In the 
February of that year my uncle wrote his second let- 
ter, and sent me ten pounds. The wonderful things 
that Anne Molton did with that ten pounds surprise 
me even to this day. 

Anne had an immense opinion of my cleverness in 
the wood-engraving line, and had confided to Mr. Bran- 
don her belief that I should soon have large sums to 
spend in the district. He had accordingly suggested 
one or two things which he thought it would be desira- 
ble to do, and as soon as this money came she told me 
of them. 

One of these was to rent the lower room or cellar of 
each house in my district, and in which there were 
often two families, and turn it into a larder for the 
house. The people, having no description of closet nor 
any place to keep food in, were always in the habit of 
buying it for each meal, even to the morsel of sugar and 
tea. Of course they paid the dearer for this, and it also 
compelled them to shop on Sunday, for not a morsel of 
meat or drop of milk would keep through the night in 
their crowded rooms. Accordingly I rented the lower 
room of one house to see how it would answer. I paid 
two shillings and sixpence a week for it, and caused 
eight little closets to be made in it with wooden frames 
and canvas panels ; they nearly filled the small place, 
and each had a lock and key. We then took out what 
glass there was in the window, and put a few light iron 
bars instead. 

We calculated that at the lowest computation the 
families would save tenpence a week each by these 
safes. They cost twelve shillings apiece, and that 
money 1 sunk ; but I let them out at one penny a week 


500 


OFF THE BKELLIOS, 


to the people in the house, so that my weekly outlay for 
rent was very small. But the plan answered so well, 
that the families in the next house petitioned me to do 
the same for them ; and as they promised to take Anne’s 
advice as to the spending of their money, I ventured to 
do it. She taught many of them to make their own 
bread once a week and keep it in their safe, and to lay 
in enough tea and sugar for the week when the week’s 
money came. 

I heard of but a single case of pilfering, and the 
plan was such a comfort that I never ceased to delight 
in it. We went on very gradually. I made the third 
set of cupboards in March, and was now burdened with 
rent ; but then I began to earn money by engraving, 
and as I had still my five shillings a week earned by 
my little pupils, I did not mind that, and there never 
was any difficulty about letting the cupboards. 

One day, just after the third house was furnished 
^vith its larder, our friend the vicar came in to see me. 
‘ Miss Graham,’ said he, ‘ do you know that this maid of 
yours is doing a great work? Why, she is reclaiming 
the people in her court from their barbarity ; but now, 
mark me, this thing will get wind if you don’t mind, 
and then the world will come to look, and good-by to 
your usefulness.’ 

I was rather alarmed at the notion of people coming 
to look on. 

‘Keep it snug, keep it snug,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t 
for your life have any conferences, and don’t let her 
mention it at the district meeting. It’s all stuff about 
thiiaking it your duty to proclaim the good she has 
been privileged to do, that others may do likewise. 
Talk and publicity are the ruin of this city. I hope 
nobody will flatter that woman and spoil her.’ 

Happily the thing did not ‘ get wind,’ and more hap- 
pily still I earned before midsummer ten pounds more 
by my engravings, and we put larders into the other 
three houses. 

At midsummer I gave up my little pupils, and took 
to wood-engraving altogether. But I was now much 


OFF TEE BKELLIOS. 


501 


more free. I had done with drawing and engraving 
lessons, and, without spending more than four hours a 
day at my art, I could earn one pound ten a week, and 
sometimes more. As I could live on my income, 1 did 
not scruple to devote this money to Anne, and she soon 
‘annexed’ another court. We got the houses white- 
washed trom garret to cellar, and introduced the second 
of Mr. Brandon’s plans. This was a hiring-room. We 
laid in a stock of pancheons, pots, kettles, smoothing- 
irons, baskets, brooms, gowns, cloaks and bonnets, coats, 
blankets, sheets, mattresses, Bibles, Prayer-books, bot- 
tles, boxes, &c., &c., and Anne opened it for hiring 
every day for an hour. 

Suppose a woman wanted to make bread, she came 
and hired a pancheon, cost-price tenpence; she paid a 
penny for the use of it, and when she had hired ten 
times it became her own property. But perhaps in the 
meantime it had been lent out ten or twelve times to 
other women, and yet was manifestly none the worse ; 
therefore we made the pancheon pay for the broom and 
scrubbing-brush, which were perishable, and which ac- 
cordingly we gave tenpence for, and sold for fbur- 
pence. 

Thus a woman got a scrubbing-brush when she had 
hired it four times, and was accommodated with other 
articles in the same proportion. 

The plan cost us very little more than the rent of the 
room, always excepting Anne’s time and keep. The 
clothing, especially the bonnets, I introduced because 
the usual excuse, and a true one, for never entening a 
place of worship was that they had no decent clothes 
to go in. I let one bonnet, gown, and cloak at three 
halfpence a time for the set, and thus ten sets of cloth- 
ing enabled thirty women to go to church once each 
on Sunday, and very soon we sold them at half-price. 
They could always produce the money, and I had as 
many candidates as I could supply. Anne and I made 
the bonnets. We did not attempt to give them a 
dowdy air, or the least look of workhouse simplicity, 
but covered the shapes with dark silk, and put in th^ 


602 


OFF THE SKELLI08 


caps a few bright flowers such as the more decent chtsses 
of poor women wear. 

I do not speak here of the ordinary London poor who 
have people to look after them, and as a rule send their 
children to school, can read and write themselves, and 
are of such a class as no one is afraid to visit. Our dis- 
trict, especially the part that Anne ‘ annexed ’ and set 
up the hiring-room in, was quite below that. The 
people, as a rule, had no clothes but what they walked 
about in ; the children were under scarcely any con- 
trol, and though most of them had picked up the ac- 
complishments of reading and writing at ragged schools, 
any moral teaching that had been given them had 
glanced oflT and been lost in the uncongenial atmos- 
phere of home. 

At midsummer I began to feel that Anne was a 
grand person to have and to keep. I hoped no society 
would get her away from me. 1 could earn, with no 
more time spent on work than served to keep me em- 
ployed and happy, about one pound ten a week ; and I 
let her have it all. She never began by preaching to peo- 
ple about their faults or even their crimes. She took 
for granted that they knew they were sinners. What 
she insisted on with them was that they were miserable, 
and that God had provided both an earthly and a 
heavenly remedy. 

Some people came to her sometimes who wished her 
to feel that she ought not to try to prepare the poor to 
move out of the country, but rather to provide for their 
being comfortable and happy where they were. I thint 
this notion disturbed Anne at first, for she was taking 
great pains by means of pictures and evening readings 
of interesting tales to prepare some of her families to 
move to Canada. If it was the will of Providence that 
England should be so full of people, was it flying in the 
face of Providence to want to redistribute them? 

Anne went to Wigfield about this time for a few 
days’ rest, and to see her friends. Then meeting Mr. 
Brandon, she told him her trouble, and he showed her a 
map of England. ‘ If the Isle of Wight was crammed 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


508 


with people,’ he said, ‘and England almost empty, 
should you think it wrong in that case to bring over as 
many as you could ? ’ 

‘Well, no, sir; but then it is so near. But, sir, Fm 
told that capital will always attract labor, and Eng- 
land, therefore, must be crowded. They say emigration 
13 only a remedy for a time.’ 

‘ But that time is our time.’ 

‘ Only they say that sending folks off does not really 
get at the root of the matter.’ 

‘Excepting in the case of those who go. And don’t 
you think they are worth considering?’ 

I went to stay with Miss Tott while Anne was at 
Wigfield. This was before Valentine’s year oi freedom 
had expired ; and now his father was so much better 
that Giles went to Canada. The Oubit’s letters then 
began to get really interesting, and more manly; he 
was learning farming of a practical farmer very near 
his home. He seemed to like it, and seemed also to 
feel the responsibility of being left to take care of hia 
father’s affairs, and in some sort to be in the place that 
his brother was accustomed to cecupy. 


604 


OFF THE SKELLIOB. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

• Herken this conseil for thy sickemess : 

Upon thy glad4 day have in thy minde 

The unware woe or harm that com’th behind.’ — Chaucer. 

T he year came to an end. Valentine had not 
failed to remind me of it, and had written more 
than once of his hope that he should come up to 
London and have my answer in person. But he did 
not come, and he did not write. 

I was surprised ; but on the fifth day after the time 
when I had thought to be asked for my decisive an- 
swer, I saw the announcement of Mr. Mortimer’s death 
in the Times. 

Valentine, the last time he had written, had men- 
tioned that his father was ailing. Dear, beautiful, good 
old man ! he had spent a happy life, and he died a most 
peaceful death. 

When I wrote to condole with Valentine, I did not 
ask any questions as to the future plans of the family ; 
but he told me of his own accord all that I cared to 
know. 

Giles, he said, had left written instructions with him 
that, under all circumstances, the house and establish- 
ment were to be kept up till his return : everything was 
to go on as usual. He also told me, with his own 
beautiful frankness, that one of the last things his 
father had said to him had, in a certain way, concerned 
me. The old man had told him that he was still very 
young to engage himself in marriage, and he wished he 
would yet wait a few months longer. 

He conveyed to me the impression that Mr. Morti- 
mer had not left much property behind him ; and in a 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


505 


Bucceeding letter he told me plainly that his father, leas 
prudent for himself than for his step-son, had got in- 
volved in some mining sjDeculations, and that when the 
debts were paid it was thought there would be noth- 
ing left for his children. 

Mrs. Henfrey had a handsome jointure. He would 
have nothing ; and Liz and Lou would be dependent on 
Giles, though the latter, with her little portion of a 
thousand pounds, was to be married to Captain Walker 
as soon as Giles returned. 

Valentine was an affectionate fellow; but I observed 
that he spoke of his brother as likely to feel Mr. Morti- 
mer’s death more than any of them ; and I thought this 
probable, for the old man was very fond and very proud 
of him ; he loved him with the peculiar partiality of 
amiable old age. 

Anne and I went for a few weeks to Hastings during 
the spring that followed. I had hoped that my uncle 
would take me on board the ‘ Curlew ’ that year, but no 
invitation came, and shortly after our return I was 
made aware of the reason. 

‘ Madam,’ said Mrs. Brand, writing to me for the first 
time, ‘ Master sends his respects to you, and I was to 
tell you that Mr. Graham has married that young 
woman after all. Master is, so to speak, heart-broken 
about it, and doesn’t seem to enjoy his meals nor his 
pipe at all. Dear ma’am, don’t take on more than you 
can help ; she was always an impudent hussy, and we 
knew it must come to this at last. But Master had 
made himself quite a slave to Mr. Graham, to keep it 
off as long as he could. 

‘ Master says he shouldn’t have minded her being a 
barmaid, no more than nothing at all, if she could have 
brought him a good character; and he would have 
taken her on board, and made the best of her; for, 
said he to me, “ If a young man who has not led a 
good life is willing to marry, that is a bad fellow who 
would prevent him, let the girl be who she will.” But 
bless you, ma’am, he cannot demean himself to notice 
Mrs. Tom Graham. 

22 


606 


OFF THE ^KELLIOS, 


‘The Master cannot seem to settle at all without 
Mr. Graham, so he never says a word about the mar- 
riage to him; and when he chooses to come on board 
and cruise about a bit, he does ; but he has taken a 
small house at Southampton for his wife. 

‘ Mr. Graham has often mentioned you to me, ma’am, 
lately, and last Tuesday week he said to me, “ If } ou 
ever write to my sister, Mrs. Brand, send my love to 
her.” 

‘ Sc no more at present, from your humble servan 

‘Mercy Bra^^d.’ 


It is remarkable on what very slight hints, and even 
on what unexpected silences, a strong impression can 
be formed ! I knew that this had been long impend- 
ing ; but how I had become possessed of the knowledge, 
even before going to Wigfield, I cannot say. I had 
been determined not to acknowledge it even to myself, 
for it seemed to have no ground to stand upon, and 
certainly I had nothing to quote for it. I might be 
wrong, and, therefore, silence was my best course with 
regard to it. 

For this trouble I could find no remedy but patience 
— and work. My heart went into mourning for this 
one brother of mine. It seemed so certain that he 
would deteriorate under such influence, and, as he 
would not write, he was already lost to me. 

Some months before I first came on board the ‘ Cur- 
lew,’ he had first met with the woman who was to cast 
her dark shadow over his future life. He was weak 
and could not resist, and yet he was obstinate and 
would not give others a chance of saving him by keep- 
ing him out of her way. 

I felt Toni’s utter loss very keenly, but I struggled 
against sorrow as well as I could, and I had Valentine’s 
letters to help me, for Valentine was improving fast, 
and now, as was his due, my heart began to turn to 
him with affectionate dependence ; he had made him- 
self im})ortant to me ; he was taking pains to fit him- 
self for the important duties of life, and he let me take 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


507 


to myself the comfort of thinking that I was doing 
him good, that the motives I set before him were not 
without their effect, and that, under my influence, he 
was growing more manly, more steady, and more se- 
rious. 

This was a pleasure, no doubt, but not exactly the 
kind of pleasure I should have chosen. I wanted to 
look up, not down ; I would gladly have obeyed a 
master, but I was not to have a master — I was to 
prepare for myself a faithful and affectionate companion 
whom it was to be my province to improve. 

I knew this was what I could have, and I often re- 
flected whether it was not better to take the kind 
heart that was ready for me, than to stay behind with- 
out a fiiend in this hemisphere, and placed in such a 
position that it was scarcely possible for me to make 
mends. 

St. George did not reach England till the June after 
Mr. Mortimer’s death, and I no sooner saw him and 
Valentine together than I became aware how much 
dearer Valentine was than he, how coolly I could now 
look on the bad taste he had betrayed in his conduct to 
me, and how secure I could now feel in the easy frank- 
ness, the growing affection, and the steady improve- 
ment of the Oubit. 

! still admired St. George’s unselfishness, his benevo- 
lence, and high-minded generosity; but I began to 
feel that he was not suited for the gentle companion- 
ship of daily life. He loved and cared for Valentine 
with an absorbing affection that he did not now at- 
tempt to conceal from me : he seemed to have trans- 
ferred to him all the regard that he had hitherto 
bestowed on his father, but he took very little notice 
of me, and, if I had not been expressly assured by Val- 
entine that he was very anxious for our marriage, I 
should have supposed that he disliked the notion of it, 
for he only came to see me twice, though the two 
brothers stayed in London a fortnight. 

I enjoyed that fortnight. I was fast reconciling my- 
self to the ''otion of spending my life with Valentino 


508 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


and I liked to listen to his plans, in which, of course^ 
I was always supposed to play a conspicuous part. 

Giles had bought a fine tract of land, with one house 
on it ; they were to build another, and each brother 
was to occupy one. 

It was such a fine climate — neither too hot, nor too 
cold — such streams for fishing, and a fine sea-board 
and soil — such timber, such shells to be picked up, 
such ferns to be gathered, that gradually, as I listened 
to the enthusiastic voice (which, by-th e-bye, was no 
longer cracked), I began to grow enthusiastic in my 
turn, and consider how delightful it would be to begin 
a new life in a new country — a useful, free, active life, 
with at least one person to whose happiness I should 
be of consequence, and among others whom I had 
worked for and helped to reclaim from barbarism. 

So Valentine and Giles went away again — the latter 
having set plans on foot, in the courts and alleys where 
Anne visited, which were to result in the sending out 
of about forty people — men, women, and children. 
How hard he worked! — vigorous hand and compre- 
hensive brain both brought to bear on the plans he was 
maturing. He came to see me, as I said, twice — the 
first time he stayed only a few minutes ; the second 
time he stayed two hours, and spent them in giving 
me instructions and advice, that I might be able to go 
on with what he had begun. 

‘ It is most desirable,’ he observed, ‘ that these very 
people should be settled about our land, for they have 
a perfect enthusiasm for you, and would do anything 
in the world to serve and please you.’ 

‘No wonder,’ exclaimed Valentine, coming up and 
sparring at him with clenched fists, ‘ hasn’t she devoted 
her whole time to them except the few hours spent in 
scribbling to me ! Oh, why was I thrown among such 
excellent people ? Giles, you villain, you’ve sailed all 
over the world on purpose to make me feel small ; you 
and Dorothea have been the ruin of me; I’m crushed 
beneath the weight of your excellences! Sir, you ha^e 
much to answer for I If it wasn’t for the presence of 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8. 


609 


a lady, I would knock you down. What business, in- 
deed, hav^e you to be so much better than your neigh* 
Dors ? ’ 

‘Come, none of this!’ said Giles, starting up and 
laughing ; ‘ if you want to knock me down, set to work 
and have done with it; show your prowess in this 
presence, which ought to inspirit you.’ 

‘On second thoughts, Dorothea,’ said Valentine, 
turning to me, ‘ on second thoughts — though I could 
easily do it, mind you ! — I shall forbear. “ Birds in 
their little nests agree, and ’tis a shocking sight,” &g. 
No, Giles, this once I won’t do it. It’s a weak point 
of his, D. dear, to think he’s strong. You may sit down 
again, Giles ; your brother has forgiven you. Speak to 
him, Dorothea.’ 

‘Sit down, Mr. Brandon, Valentine will excuse you 
this once for being his superior, and you cannot very 
well throw him out of this window, because there is an 
area outside.’ 

Mr. Brandon, however, did not sit down again ; he 
had laughed ; but when we began to talk together, he 
went to the window, and stood gi’avely looking out, as 
if lost in thought. In that attitude he continued till 
Valentine said he was ready to go, and he then turned 
and shook hands with me, and sighed. He looked 
gloomy enough then, perhaps a little irate also, for 
Valentine had kept him waiting some time, and it was 
scarcely possible that they could reach their train. 

They set off. I knew it would be two months before 
I should see Valentine again; but I was easy on this 
point — he never gave me the least cause to be other- 
wise, Early in August, Mrs. Henfrey, Liz, and Valen- 
tine were going to the sea-side ; Anne and I were to 
visit the same place, and there I was to give Valentine 
my final answer. 

The time passed not unpleasantly. I earned a good 
deal of money for the outfits of my people; but I 
never improved in wood-engraving beyond a certain 
point : I attained great facility and quickness, but was 
oonsci()us myself that I should never excel. I had 


610 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


illustrated several little books of small importance, and 
never was in want of work ; therefore I did not care 
particularly to find that I was not to advance any 
further; for if I did go to New Zealand, I should not 
exercise the art there, and in the meantime I could earn 
two guineas a week, and spend it on my emigrants. 

Mr. Brandon came up again to London in July ; I 
never saw him, excepting in the district, whither I now 
sometimes went with Anne. It was a great undertak- 
ing to ship off* so many people, and the weather was 
intensely hot, which added to his fatigue. My chief 
business was with the clothing required, and I often 
sat up till three o’clock in the morning, working through 
the summer nights, with the windows open to admit 
the night air, which was fresh and wholesome, com- 
pared with what we had to breathe in the day. 

Always cheerful, always kind to the people, reassur- 
ing the women, instructing the men, 1 heard of Mr. 
Brandon day by day, though I did not see him ; and 
I heard from Valentine, sometimes every week, some- 
times oftener. 

One day he sent me a little hamper of plants by the 
railway. I unpacked them myself, as Anne was out, 
and set them one by one on my table. Afterwards I 
noticed that the pots were wrapped in paper that had 
been written upon. Old exercises I thought the writ- 
ing looked like : it was clear and round, and very dis- 
tinct. The flowers were more attractive than these 
papers, and I do not think my eye was drawn to 
the writing again for two days, when, as I sat quietly 
engraving, thes^- words were clearly seen : ‘ Tell you 
what I have been about, my lad ? Don’t flatter your- 
self ; I shall do no such thing. A man who cannot 
mind his own business is not to be trusted with the 
king’s. Besides you might treat my letters as you do 
Miss ’ Here a hiatus. 

How queer of Valentine, I thought, to use old letters 
to wrap his pots in. And I felt rather pained to think 
that perhaps he laid my letters about in the same way. 

I took off* this bit of paper, destroyed it, glanced at 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


^11 


Another pot, and these solemn words met my eyes: 
‘ It is not possible truly to believe that He gave life 
and yet not to love the Givei ; it is not possible to hu- 
man nature to love without trying to please the object 
of the love. And how can you talk with contempt of 
small beginnings and worthless attempts? If God 
does not despise “ the day of small things,” you must 
not despise it either.’ 

It made the blood rush to my face to think that Anne, 
and the servants, and Mrs. Bolton, and her pupils, 
might all probably have read this letter. I began to 
suspect who alone could have written thus to Valen- 
tine, and when I turned the pot to the other side the 
writing was too fatally clear for a single word to be mis- 
taken. ‘ I have paid your bills, and, you young scape- 
grace, don’t leave this about, for I should feel humiliated 
it any living soul saw that I demeaned myself to the 
pitch of caring so much about you. Why can’t you 
burn your letters instead of throwing them about the 
floors, and wiping your razors on them ? ’ 

That was all ; the paper was torn away, and I saw 
no signature. But Y alentine had also sent me some seeds 
of mignonette ; they, as I remembered, were twisted 
in written paper, in the same clear hand. I took them, 
turned them upside down, that I might not read the 
writing, and proceeded to empty them into a glass; 
but fate was too cunning for me. The name was signed 
cornerwise, where I could not fail to see it: ‘Your 
loving brother, G. B.’ 

I felt exceedingly vexed. This, then, was a letter 
addressed to Valentine by Giles, and containing a par- 
ticular request, which he had not attended to. It 
alluded to a habit of his which made me blush, and 
wonder what he did with my letters. Was he likely 
to correspond Avith any other Miss beside myself? I 
thought not; then in all probability, the letters that 
Giles had picked up were my letters. 

I did not like to question Valentine about this, but it 
had a sensible effect on my mind. I wrote more cau- 
tiously, and I believe that till August came, and my 


612 


OFF TUB SEFLLIOS. 


people were shipped off, and Anne and I, both look- 
ing very pale after long residence in London, had 
reached the pretty little bay where we were to spend 
our holidays, I had never forgotten the ill-omened pi^ce 
of paper for an hour. 

A pretty little cottage had been taken for us by Mrs. 
IJenfrey. It was near their own lodgings, and was 
i'.overed with china roses and passion-flower. Valen- 
tine met us at the railway, and showed such simple and 
natural delight that I was touched. Who was I, in- 
deed, that he should care so long for one who had given 
sc little in return? 

When I had changed my dress he took me to his 
sister, and I drank tea with her and Liz, Valentine being 
in such high spirits, and so openly complimentary, that 
I saw he was in no doubt as to my accepting him. 

He was, indeed, a fine fellow : his cough had left him, 
and though he stooped a little, he betrayed no other 
sign of weak health. He bad all his father’s beauty of 
feature ; the brown whiskers that he had prophesied of 
were come. And as he sat opposite to me in his sea- 
side costume, I could not help looking at him and ad- 
miring him. 

‘Valentine looks well, my dear,’ observed Mrs. Hen- 
frey. 

‘ And is well,’ said Liz. 

‘Good action,’ Valentine added, ‘warranted to go 
quietly in harness, no vice — rising twenty-two next 
grass.’ 

Mrs. Henfrey laughed, and made some remark about 
his going in harness. 

‘Why, yes,’ said Valentine, ‘the sooner I make up 
rny mind to it the better. Look at Walker, Lou takes 
away all his money, and only allows him a shilling a 
day for his little pleasures.’ 

‘Excepting what he spends in turnpikes,’ observed 
Mrs. Henfrey : ‘ she pays that.’ 

‘If I w^ere Captain Walker,’ I remarked, ‘I should 
not allow that. I should choose to be master in my 
own house.’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


518 


‘Hear her!’ cried Valentine. ‘Well, if I ever have 
a wife,’ he continued, with affected modesty and con- 
fusion, ‘ as there is nothing I desire so much as to please 
you, I shall endeavor to be master in my own house.’ 

It was a glorious evening, and the quiet sea was 
Bending up crisp little wavelets among the roundest of 
pebbles and the cleanest of sand. Valentine took me 
out for a walk, and I felt all the ecstacy that the clear 
gky, and wooded cliffs, and sunny sea can impart, when 
one has long been pent up in a city, working hard and 
thinking much. 

Those were very pleasant days. We rambled about, 
pleased with each other, but not talking in lover-like 
fashion. I always instinctively checked such talk, and 
he followed my lead. At last, when we had been to- 
gether a week, he one day said, as we were walking 
home with baskets full of shells and seaweed, ‘Well, 
D. dearest, have you made up your mind?’ 

‘ About what ? ’ I asked. 

‘Why, whether you’ll have me. I’ve waited very 
patiently.’ 

‘ So you have.’ 

‘ And Giles says we really ought to sail next Christ- 
mas. Come, say yes, and have done with it.’ 

‘Very well; I do say yes.’ 

‘You do!’ he exclaimed, throwing up his cap and 
catching it again : ‘ then I say hurra ! ’ 

We walked together in silence for half a mile, and 
then he said, — 

‘ Why have you hesitated so long, dear ? ’ 

‘ Because I did not think we cared enough for each 
other.’ 

‘And you think so still? ’ 

‘ Yes ; but the time is so near that now it does not so 
much signify.’ 

‘Very true,’ he answered, as quietly as possible, ‘it’s 
not likely, you know, that in such a little while I sliould 
see any one I like better. And if I don’t love you 
enough, it’s coitain that I love you better than anybody 
else.’ 


514 


OFF THE S KELLI OS. 


I think that was all that passed between me and this 
amiable, sweet-tempered fellow. I felt that what he 
had said of himself was also true of me. And I began 
to see that when we were once married we had every 
likelihood of happiness. I should care ten times more 
for him when I had made it my duty and the occupa- 
tion of my life to do so. And he would have few peo- 
ple to compare with me out in New Zealand. I should 
be useful and even necessary to him, and I fully believed 
that he would never regret the wife he had chosen. 

So we walked home quietly together. He showed that 
he was in good spirits by singing a little now and then ; 
but he did not kiss me, or even take my band. When 
I came in Mrs. Henfrey asked me to dine with her, and 
I agreed, and went up-stairs to take off my bonnet. In 
the meantime Valentine had told his sisters what had 
passed, and when I came down they both kissed and 
congratulated me. 

And so this matter was settled. I certainly had ex- 
pected it to be accomplished with more dignity; but 
when the question was asked I was ready with my an- 
swer. I had taken plenty of time to consider, and at 
last had made up my mind, not that I greatly loved 
Valentine, but that I could not give up the only being 
who greatly loved me. 

After this I was very cheerful and contented. Every 
day seemed to justify me to myself, for Valentine was 
in delightful spirits, pleased with me and everything I 
did; and never so happy as when we were rambling 
about together, or sitting talking under the deep 
shadows of the crags. 

There was one morning that made, as I supposed at 
the time, no es]>ecial impression on me. I had on a hat 
and feather, his first present to me for my personal 
adorninent, excepting the ring. We sat togetlier in a 
little cove, sorting some shells that we had collected, as 
we had frequently done before, and a little vessel sailed 
across the blue water, rocking prettily and gleaming 
white in the sunshine. The tide had gone out and laid 
bare the rocks covered with seaweed, and we saw a man 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 515 

stepping lightly among them, and sometimes standing 
still and gazing out to sea. 

‘Whoever that fellow is,’ said Valentine, ‘he’s not as 
happy as I am.’ 

I do not very often dream, but what I have dreamed 
once I dream again. Many, many times since have 1 
dreamt of that scene : the overhanging crags, the deli- 
cate little heaps of shells, the fluttering of the feathers 
in my hat, and the solitary figure, concerning which 
Valentine was pleased to remark, ‘he is not as happy as 
I am.’ 

We had passed a pleasant week since our engage- 
ment. Sometimes we read together, and sometimes we 
practised. Valentine’s voice was, as I have said before, 
no longer cracked; but it was not at all a good one, — 
it was poor, thin, and of small compass, yet it was his 
great ambition to sing. And I spent many an hour 
practising his songs with him, and artfully accompany- 
ing them, humoring him in the tune and covering his 
defects as well as I could. 

‘Well,’ said Valentine, rising reluctantly, ‘I suppose 
1 ought to go and meet old Giles at the station.’ 

I had known that Giles was coming that morning, but 
it had slipped out of my mind, and I now said that if 
he would not be away more than an hour 1 would sit 
there and wait for him. The little station was just a 
quarter of a mile off; he had only to climb the wind- 
ing path in the cliflT, and cross a strip of wild heath, and 
there it was, 

I sat there alone and thanked God for my present 
happiness. The recreation and pleasure of the country 
and the sea were very great; the comfort of the de- 
fined future was also great; and though I felt none of 
the jealousies, the absorbing interest, nor the restless 
excitement that I had heard ascribed to lovers, I was 
happy, and knew that I was likely to be more so. 

A man who began so gradually and reasonably to 
care for, and deliberately preferred, without idolizing 
me, was likely, as 1 now began to feel, to preserve his 
liking when I had shown him that I deserved it by 


516 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


returning it. There was no over-estimation to begin 
with, and sink to its natural level ; there was no enthu-i 
siasm to cool, and nothing to be found out. We were 
both thoroughly well acquainted with one another, and 
now that I liked him well, I began to see that we were 
better suited to each other than most people. Only, I 
said to myself, if I might have had a master ! But I 
checked that thought, it was so mean ; and I confess 
that the notion of being the ruling spirit was not di;^ 
tasteful, if only it could be concealed from others ! To 
have my own way, and yet to have other people think 
that my husband ruled, would, I thought, be not dis- 
agreeable, and I resolved that it should be so. I had 
already been able to make Valentine take my views of 
certain little matters and act upon them, thinking they 
were his own. I resolved to do it again. 

Sitting quite alone in the clear heat of that exquisite 
August day, I let my heart sun itself with the beauty 
around. That nimble and delicious air seemed to per- 
vade me, and make me more buoyant and joyous. My 
thoughts and the pictures that imagination was paint- 
ing for me of my future mustered color and freshness 
from the vivid coloring about me. The murmuring 
noise of London being hushed, I could hear the exquis- 
ite tinkling of the water that only just curled its clear 
brink as it broke on the pebbles. And this water was 
making the very music I was to live near out in New 
Zealand. I listened, and it seemed to prophesy a pleas- 
ant something. The water only gave the music, but I set 
words to it, and the music and the words together were 
delightful to my heart. The water turned out to be a 
true prophet. I did not. The words I had sung to it 
were not half good enough, and were all wrong from 
beginning to end. 

Voices close at hand — Valentine’s and another. 
Before I had time to change my attitude they turned 
the corner of the cliffs and entered the tiny cove. 

‘There he is,’ said Valentine, and Giles, lifting Idf 
hat, stooped to give me his hand as I sat, and smiled 
affectionately. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


517 


They sat down, Valentine beside me, Giles in front 
of us. I was conscious directly of a great change for 
the better in the manner of the latter. He was now 
quite friendly to me, and having come down to make 
holiday, he had left business behind him, and forgotten 
for the time his coppers and baths, his lectures, emi- 
grants, and schools, and was enjoying the scene about 
him with tranquil contentment. 

So I thought; and when Valentine told me that he 
was the man whom he had seen walking among the 
rocks, I remarked, ‘Then you were mistaken about 
“that man.”’ 

‘I had no sooner climbed the cliff,’ continued Valen- 
tine, ‘than he recognized me and waved his wide- 
awake.’ 

‘ What did Valentine say about “ that man”?’ asked 
Giles. 

Valentine told him: he listened with quiet attention. 
Perhaps our circumstances, and this tacit confession of 
Valentine’s pride in them, touched and pleased him; 
certain it is that he looked at us both with a smile most 
sweet and sunny, as one might well do who knew that 
he had made two young people happy, and shaped their 
pleasant prospects for them, and smoothed their way. 

‘ And why did you say he was mistaken ? ’ he asked, 
addressing me. 

His eyes and his whole face were full of such a much 
higher kind of happiness than Valentine had exulted 
in, that I had spoken suddenly, and now would have 
given something to have been silent. 

‘ You must have been very uncommonly jolly indeed, 
old Giles,’ said Valentine, ‘ if you were then as jolly aa 
I was — besides, you were alone.’ 

‘My dear boy, I don’t at all doubt that you are aa 
happy as you know how to be, perfectly brimful of hap- 
piness.’ 

‘ And not as happy as you would be if you were en* 
gaged and in my circumstances.’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Nor as happy as I am now.’ 


BIS 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


‘That was Miss Graham’s opinion. I have nothing 

do with it.’ 

‘You’re a miserable bachelor.’ 

‘ That’s my own fault.’ 

‘O the conceit of mankind! I have no doubt he 
thinks, D., that he could be engaged to-morrow if he 
riked.’ 

‘ Not the least question of it,’ he answered. 

‘Then why don’t you set about it?’ asked Valentine, 

‘ I mean to do ! — there is nothing I am more con- 
vinced oi* than that I should be happier married.’ 

‘ O yes ! that abstract question is settled, but the 
moment one ventures to point out some particular 
lady — ’ 

‘ Why, then, being such a modest man, I always re- 
mark that I know she would not have me.’ 

‘Just hear him, D., how idly and contentedly ho 
talks : not a spark of enthusiasm, no fervor, no earnest- 
ness. O Giles, I wouldn’t be you for a good deal. 
You can sit opposite to the sweetest face, and the most 
killing hat and feather, and never remark them in the 
least.’ 

‘There you are mistaken; I admire the hat and 
feather exceedingly.’ 

‘ And not the wearer, Giles ? ’ 

Before Giles could answer I started up and said it 
was time to be walking homewards. The conversa- 
tion changed to boating and fishing. Valentine and I 
had been out the whole of the previous morning in a 
boat, and had only caught two very small mullet. We 
related our adventures, and Giles criti4?ised the rigging 
of the fishing smacks. Then Valentine launched out in 
praise of my skill in rowing and climbing cliffs; my 
feats in walking long distances, and my other excel- 
lences, while I tried to stem the torrent of his enco- 
miums, and Giles indulgently listened and smiled, 

Liz and Mrs. Henfrey loved to sit in a bathing ma- 
chine reading a novel. Giles liked sailing and fishing. 
And Valentine and I liked to ramble about, and sit 
talking undei’ the cliffs. Sometimes in the evening 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


519 


Valentine sang, and Giles groaned over bis false notes, 
and shivered with the torture his mistakes inflicted on 
him. 

‘What a pity you will sing, my dear!’ said Mrs. 
Henfrey, one night. ‘ Here’s all this good accompnuv- 
ing lost upon you; whereas, if Dorothea played lor 
Giles to sing to, it would be a treat to hear them.’ 

This very unflattering speech for once put Valentine 
out of temper, and he marched into the little garden. 
I sat before the piano for a few minutes while Mrs. 
Henfrey continued her remarks to Giles, but he did not 
offer to sing nor I to play, and I presently went out 
into the moonlight, and soothed Valentine with a little 
harmless flattery, to the effect that I liked playing for 
him better than for any one else, and that he would 
soon sing better if he took pains. 

Meanwhile, even as I talked to him, I seemed to be- 
come conscious of a slight change, which I appeared 
to myself then to have acted on before, though uncon- 
sciously. It seemed to have become my province to 
please him, no longer his to please me, and as I con- 
ti/nued to excuse Mrs. Henfrey’s speech, and show that 
I had always liked to play for him, I felt that several 
times before I had had the same kind of thing to do, 
and I said to myself that surely I need not trouble my- 
self with the fear of ruling, for I had met with a mas- 
ter after all. 

We went in again; but Valentine had not quite 
recovered his temper, and I by various little arts and 
slight attentions gradually restored it, till Giles helped 
me by proposing to read aloud, for which I was gi’ate- 
ful, seeing that it was done on my behalf. 

His voice, almost as fine in reading as in singing, 
was not without a soothing effect on Valentine; be- 
sides, the reading gave him space for reflection, and 
when it was over he talked as usual, till Anne Mol- 
ton came to fetch me home, and he walked with me, 
when he burst out with, ‘ I hate to be compared to 
Giles ; the comparison is so damaging to me. 

I said nothing, and he presently added — ‘It’s a»* 


620 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


tonishiiig to me that you can’t see how much he is above 
me.’ 

‘ I do see it. I see that he is above us both, but not 
in everything^ 

‘ In ^ hat one thing am I equal to him ? ’ 

‘In temper. You have quite as good a temper as he 
haK . I think rather a better one.’ 

‘ Thank you, Dorothea. Anything else ? ’ 

‘Yes; you are taller.’ 

‘ Pooh.’ 

‘ And handsomer.’ 

‘ D., you will soon put me in good temper.’ 

‘ And more fond of ladies’ society.’ 

‘Yes.’^ 

‘ Particularly of mine ? ’ 

‘ That I am.’ 

‘ We’ll play and sing that song together to-morrow, 
when they are all out.’ 

‘ So we will, Dorothea. Oh, what a nice little thing 
you are ! ’ 

So we did, taking care to see the remainder of the 
party safe out of the house. Then when even I was 
weary of the practising, we came out, and wandered 
along the quiet shore towards a tiny cove, in which we 
often sat. We went on till we reached a promontory, 
from which the tide never receded, and climbed up a 
steep path till we stood on the top of it. It was 
crowned with a wood, which we passed through, and 
approached our cove from above, crossing the narrow 
promontory and looking down. On the soft, white 
sand below a man was lying full length, leaning on liis 
elbow, and gazing out to sea. 

It’s Giles, said Valentine. ‘Well, if we are not to 
have the place to ourselves, I would rather he shared it 
with us than that any one else did.’ 

Giles had been so pleasant and brother-like to me 
lately, that I no longer felt ill at ease in his company, 
and stood looking on while Valentine set down the 
lunch-basket, and threw little pebbles towards him. 
They did not reach him. He was either asleep or in a 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S, 


521 


deep fit of abstraction, and we slowly wound down the 
steep path towards him, nearly reaching him before he 
looked up ; which he did at last with great gravity ; 
and as he betrayed no surprise, and did not accost us, 
we took no notice of him, but set the basket down close 
to him, and spread the cloth, as if he had not been 
there, leaving him by slow degrees to rouse himself 
from his deep abstraction. 

‘When Mr. Brandon comes home,’ I said to Valen- 
tine, ‘he shall have some of these white-heart cherries. 

‘ Comes home ! ’ he asked. ‘ From whence ? ’ 

‘ From wherever you have been, this last half-hour.’ 

He darted a look at me, and an absolute flush mounted 
over his brow. ‘ What is a m’an’s home ! ’ he asked, to my 
surprise. ‘ Is it the place where his thoughts dwell ? ’ 

‘ I did not mean to raise such a question, and I can 
not answer it, so I shall change my remark to Valen- 
tine, and say when Mr. Brandon comes dow7i he shall 
have some of these white-heart cherries.’ 

‘Was it your pleasure to suppose that I had reached 
some height and was exulting there ? ’ 

‘Yes; and looking down at the prospect,’ I replied, 
vexed at the evident despondency and almost shame of 
his manner, and wishing to convey to him, for the first 
time, some hint that I was grateful to him for his good- 
ness to Valentine, in which I was to be the sharer. 
‘You were looking down from some New Zealand 
eminence, perhaps, and you saw a pretty house, round 
the balconies of which I hear that you have planted some 
vines and some passion-flowers and some cluster roses.’ 

‘You are mistaken,’ he answered, hastily; ‘I waa 
down, not up — very low down indeed — grovelling.’ 

‘Very well,’ I replied; “‘He that is down need fear 
no fall.’” 

‘Hear, hear,’ said Valentine. ‘D., my dear, after the 
pains you have taken to cure me of quoting, I am 
pleased to find that you are taking to it yourself Now, 
here we are. “ Rolls, ham sandwiches, buns, cherries, 
and ginger-beer.” Dorothea, serve out the rations. 
Take a cabbage-leaf, settler, by way of a plate ; we are 


522 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


rehearsing our parts to play life in New Zealand, 
Giles.’ 

‘ In that case you had better dispense with the table* 
cloth.’ 

‘ Anything else ? ’ 

‘ Yes, the hat and feather.’ 

‘No, Giles,’ said Valentine with great seriousness; 
‘ I always mean her to have a hat and feather, and to 
bo got up just as she is now : my happiness will greatly 
depend on that.’ He broke into a laugh as he spoke, 
and went on, ‘ When you have a wife, I know you will 
be exceedingly particular about her dress.’ 

‘ On the contrary, I mean to have one who will look 
well in anything.’ 

‘The old story, always looking for impossibilities. 
Liz heard from Jane Wilson yesterday.’ 

‘ What has that to do with it ? ’ said Mr. Brandon, 
thrown off his guard. 

‘You know best. They are coming. Dorothea, 
have you a spare cabbage-leaf for Giles to fan himself 
with, he looks hot? Jane’s a fine creature. Don’t 
laugh, D. ; how can you be so unfeeling ? I say, Giles, 
she’s a fine creature.’ 

‘ And these are fine cherries,’ said Mr. Brandon. 

‘Well, if there is one thing that I thoroughly detest it 
is a dogged insensibility to the charms of womankind.’ 

I couid not help saying, ‘ I do not observe the insen- 
sibility.’ On the contrary, I did observe a curious kind 
of embarrassment and a mounting flush over the healthy 
forehead, and I thought to myself, ‘Jane Wilson’s 
preference is rewarded at last.’ 

I wondered whether she would understand him, or at 
all enter into the needs of a nature so peculiar, so strong, 
and so capable, as he had shown me, of a deep and 
almost romantic attachment. Sometimes people are 
conscious of other people’s eyes, though they are look- 
ing away from them. Mr. Brandon was conscious of 
mine then I suppose, for he brought himself to glance 
at me, and I thought he had the air of a man who felt 
that he was found out. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


623 


He was quietly putting his hand into thi^ dry w bite 
sand, and sifting it through his fingers in search of the 
minute shells that it contained, and at the same t.me 
humming over the words of a little French song then 
in fashion. 

‘ There’s nothing more odd to my mind than to hear 
you sing,’ observed Valentine, ‘because your voice is 
so difierent from your feelings.’ 

‘You and Miss Graham are exceedingly personal in 
your remarks this morning,’ replied Giles, ‘ and you 
neither of you know anything about my feelings.’ 

‘ I know that you are a very jolly fellow, and that 
your feelings, whatever they may be, are kept as close 
as — ’ 

‘As potted shrimps,’ interrupted Giles, ‘with the 
layer of butter at top.’ 

‘ And yet you sing like a nightingale with — ’ 

‘ Stop my lad, vary the simile ; say a stormcock 
with a hairpin sticking in, under his left pinion.’ And 
so saying he went on to the end of the little song, at 
first with a joyous defiant air that suited well with the 
words, and at last with a touch of tenderness that 
made the tears start into my eyes. 

‘D.,’ said Valentine, ‘what makes you look at Giles 
with that pretty kind of wistful interest ? I suppose 
you are cogitating about him and the coming fair one.’ 

This remark was naturally rather embarrassing to 
Giles, and I stammered out some foolish excuse, saying, 
that I did not know I had stared at him. 

But I had been cogitating about him and the coming 
fair one, and so there was no denying it. 

‘I should like to hear Jane Wilson and Dorothea 
having a feminine quarrel,’ said Valentine, mischiev- 
ously ; ‘ it would be so pretty to hear that deep voice, 
mellow and manly, answered by this sweet little child- 
ish pipe so small and clear. Perhaps, Giles, we may 
hear them quarrel some day.’ 

‘You never will,’ I said. ‘I shall take a great in- 
terest in her.’ 

Mr. Brandon replied with some hesitation, ‘ Do, she 


524 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


is a good girl, and as to her voice some people considei 
it agreeable.’ 

‘Cautious,’ observed Valentine. 

‘ Come, have done with this,’ said Giles, with sudden 
vehemence. 

‘To be sure. I’ll talk of something else. Do you 
know, D., that last night late, Giles and I took a stroll, 
and I made a few observations in reply to a lecture 
that he gave me ? ’ 

‘ He told me what you had said respecting my tem- 
per, height, and features. Miss Graham. You need not 
look so much disconcerted, I felt flattered.’ 

‘ I am glad of it.’ 

‘ I am aware that you did not intend to flatter me, 
but Valentine; but it is my humor to be cheerful.’ 

‘I forgot that Valentine was in the habit of telling 
ever3^thing to you.’ 

‘He is my safety-valve,’ observed Valentine; ‘such 
a stunning fellow in general to hold his tongue and 
march on apparently listening, but often thinking of 
something else. Well, D., last night I was launching 
out a little about you, and he being very silent, I natu- 
rally thought he was attending.’ 

‘ Poor Mr. Brandon ! ’ 

‘ And I was warming with my subject, and in the full 
tide of eloquence, when he heaved up a deep sigh and 
stopped short, looking out to sea. Being thus brought 
to, I stopped also and looked out, saying, “ What’s the 
matter, old fellow? ” and he replied, after a pause, “ I’ve 
not eaten a single lobster since I’ve been at this stupid 
place.” Only imagine, while I was enlarging on the 
sweets of domestic life and the happy future, he was 
thinking about eating ! ’ 

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Brandon, that you should have so 
much to suffer on my account.’ 

‘ Don’t mention it,’ he answered, laughing. 

‘ It’s what he’ll do himself when he is in my circum- 
stances,’ said Valentine. 

St. George, on hearing this, elevated his eyebrows 
with an air of astonishment and almost scorn. He 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


525 


Beemed about to say something, but thought better of 
it, and laughed instead, not by any means with a flat- 
tering air, but as if, well as he knew Valentine, the re 
mark had quite taken him by surprise. 

‘ Well ? ’ said Y alentine. 

‘ Is it a good or a bad thing for a man to have no 
thoughts or feelings too strong or too deep to be ex- 
pressed ? ’ 

‘Giles, you never used to put these metaphysical 
questions to a fellow. Why, a good thing I should say, 
when one has somebody to talk to.’ 

This slight hint that Valentine’s feelings could be 
neither deep nor strong hurt me, however, chiefly, I 
believe, because I supposed it to be correct, and I could 
not help saying that I had often heard it remarked how 
much the affections grew by being exercised. ‘ Besides,’ 
I went on, conscious all the time that I was arguing 
against my own secret convictions, ‘ people are not all 
gifted with equal powers of expression, and if two peo- 
ple feel equally, one may be able eloquently to describe 
while the other is mute, not from more feeling but from 
fewer words.’ 

He seemed inclined to put the question by, but Val- 
entine would not let him, and went on till he said, ‘ I 
never had a thought or image in my mind that I could 
not translate into language, if I chose ; but sensations 
and passions are different : words lie below them or fly 
over their heads. I cannot convey them unless they 
are slight and feeble, and that is lucky for me, for I 
have no desire to do so.’ 

‘I think I could,’ said Valentine. 

‘ You could not convey to another person’s mind the 
knowledge of what precise degree of anger you felt 
against him, or what pity or love for him ; you would 
use superlatives to express the extreme of your love or 
your dislike, and he could but use the same superla- 
tives, though he might be capable of ten times keener 
loA^e and dislike.’ 

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that is true, yet we know who feels 
much and who feels little; one man’s words do not 


626 


OFF THE SKELLIQS, 


affect us because they do not affect himself, he says 
them with ease and coolness; another’s affect us very 
much, though he may say less, because we see that he 
is affected by them himself, utters them with difficulty, 
and feels an intense meaning in them.’ 

He smiled and answered, ‘You and I are not devoid 
of penetration; we can read character and detect 
motives. W e think so, do we not ? ’ 

‘ I think I can read motives.’ 

‘You know what motives wowld prompt you to cer- 
tain actions, and therefore you impute them to others 
— to myself for instance. You and Valentine have 
been exercising your penetration on me all the mom- 
ing.’ 

‘ Have we done it to any purpose ? ’ 

‘What an audacious young lady! No, Valentine 
never hit the mark, but fell far short of it.’ 

‘And I?’ 

‘ You have occasionally appeared to me to come near 
it, but I have found afterwards that you had far over- 
shot it. As a general rule, I should say that you are 
prone to do so ; you go too deep, and look too far ofl^ 
and are too fond of analyzing.’ 

‘ Have 1 shown that to-day ? ’ 

‘ Only with your eyes.’ 

‘ I shall be careful how I use my eyes for the fUturOi 
and if possible seeing with me shall not be believing.’ 


OFF THE 8KELL108. 


527 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

I N a few days the Wilsons arrived, and a gi*eat boy 
with them, who was in everybody’s way. 

I soon saw that Jane was still a good deal in 
terested in Mr. Brandon, and that her mother no longer 
cared to oppose her. I am sure he was not aware of her 
preference, but he was aware of our observation; he 
knew his sisters watched him when in her company, and 
I believed that if he could be with her when she was 
away fi-om her people and from his he would be glad. 
So one morning when Valentine and Giles had gone 
out fishing, and had left word with Liz and me to be at 
our favorite cove at one o’clock with luncheon, when 
they would meet us and walk home with us, I went to 
Liz at eleven o’clock, and took with me an attractive 
paper, setting forth that there was to be a cottage 
flower-show that day in a village close by ; and when I 
saw she longed to go to it — for she was infatuated 
about such things — I said I could easily get some one 
else to go to the cove with me, and she gladly let me. 
So I sent on the basket by a girl whom we employed, ran 
tx) the bathing-machines and begged Jane Wilson to take 
a walk with me, — anything that made it in the least 
likely she would see Mr. Brandon she was sure to ac- 
cept, — and we set off together, both of us very well 
pleased. 

Jane was a sweet girl, — not clever, but affectionate 
and simple. We were very happy that morning, and 
in the course of conversation I let it appear that we 
were to have the two brothers to luncheon. In duo 
time their boat was beached. I saw a man with bare 
feet spring out, take Valentine on his back and carry 
him beyond the wave. 


528 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


* That’s Mr. Brandon ! ’ exclaimed J ane. 

‘ Is it ? ’ I said, for I had been looking at Valentine ; 
‘he did it for a joke then, no doubt. The sailor gen- 
erally takes Valentine on shore, for it would not be 
prudent in him to wet his feet.’ 

Valentine soon began to plod slowly up toward ua, 
and Giles occupied himself sometime pulling the oars 
and sails about, putting on his shoes, &c., and talking 
to the man. Then turning and seeing Valentine lar 
before him, he set off to follow ; and it sent a pang to 
my heart to see the different way in which they pro- 
ceeded. Valentine, walking rather slowly, and with a 
somewhat plodding foot, was following the course of a 
fresh-water stream which was between us and him, and 
which he would have to track up to a bridge near the 
cliff. But Giles, to shorten the distance, vaulted two 
or three times over this stream, and so came straight 
toward us. 

‘I wish Valentine was strong enough to do that,’ I 
said. 

‘ One never sees such a graceful figure anywhere as 
Mr. Brandon’s,’ said Jane. ‘Look, there he goes 
again.’ 

His grace was nothing to me, but his vigor made me 
feel a little anxious, the difference was so marked be- 
tween the two brothers. 

He came up the knoll on which we sat, before V alen- 
tine reached us. He greeted Jane Wilson with all 
politeness, and then he gave me a significant look, and 
came and seated himself beside me, where Valentine, 
of course, was intended to be. 

When Valentine appeared, having crossed the bridge, 
he did not look best pleased : he was not often put out, 
but when he was he always showed it. Giles did not 
rise, and went on talking, spreading out the viands and 
helping us to them in spite of two or three looks that I 
gave him, and which he returned with a certain air of 
amused defiance. 

Jane would, no doubt, have'liked to sit where I did; 
but as Valentine would not talk at all, she could talk to 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


529 


Giles, and did for a while, till he too fell into silence, 
leaving us to talk together, and beginning to hum a few 
notes of some little German song. 

‘Let us have a quartette,’ said Valentine, speaking 
for the first time. 

Anything that enabled him to exercise his voice was 
always welcome to him ; and though I was very angry 
with Giles for being so tiresome, I could not possibly 
help laughing, and was obliged to turn my face to him 
to hide it from the other two. They had both of them 
a little way of singing out of time, and I felt that now 
Giles was going to be punished for his behavior, and 
that it served him right. 

‘I wish Mr. Brandon would sing a solo instead^ 
said Jane humbly. ‘I am often afraid that I sing out 
of tune, and I don’t like to exhibit my defects.’ 

This was so true, and so modestly said, that I could 
not bear the thought of her being made to sing. ‘ You 
will sing,’ I said to him. ‘ Pray do.’ 

‘ Of course,’ he answered. 

Jane named a song that she wished for, and while he 
sang it I thought I had never heard anything so sweet 
in my life ; and as it went on I sat as forward as I 
could, because an inconvenient tear stole down Jane 
Wilson’s cheek and dropped upon her glove. 

I was so sorry I had brought her that I could almost 
have cried too, and I felt comforted, to be sure, that 
Valentine did not see her, for he was pulling some bits 
of fern out of the rock behind us, and comparing them 
with other bits that he had in a pocket note-book. 

‘That’s not green spleenwort, old fellow,’ said Mr. 
Brandon, the instant he had finished his song; ‘you 
need not think it.’ And they began to argue together 
about the ferns in the neighborhood. Valentine and I 
had found a great many varieties, as we supposed ; but 
when they were spread out in the note-book before 
Jane’s more learned eyes, some of them were con-« 
demned as young specimens of the more common sorts, 
and several as mere duplicates in different stages of 
growth. 

23 HH 


630 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


I was very much disappointed when Jane said that 
none of it was the ‘ viride.’ 

‘But there is some here,’ said Giles, ‘and if you 
really care to see it I can easily show it, for it is not a 
hundred yards from this spot.’ 

He sprang up, and I half mechanically rose, when he 
held out his hand to me. 

‘Val,’ he said, ‘if you and Jane will go over the 
bridge, I’ll bring Miss Graham round to the knoll. It’s 
a much shorter way : we shall be there before you.’ 

‘Very well,’ said Valentine; and Giles, who had not 
left go of my hand, put it on his arm, and we set off at 
a brisk pace in what seemed the wrong direction. We 
crossed over the sandy knoll and came to the brink of 
the stream again. He let go my hand, and vaulted 
over it, fetching a wheelbaiTOW which was in the field 
on the other side. ‘The spleenwort is on this bank,’ 
he said as he returned, ‘ and a little lower down.’ Ho 
turned the wheelbarrow upside down in the middle of 
the stream, and setting his foot on it to keep it steady, 
invited me to step on it, which I did, and crossed easily. 
Then he returned it to the spot where he had found it, 
and we went on a few paces, when we found the deli- 
cate weed, and saw Valentine and Jane giving the 
lunch-basket to our girl messenger, who had come 
for it. 

Giles laughed, and waving his hand, to them, sig- 
nalled to Valentine to go over the bridge and take our 
usual path. 

Valentine seemed undecided, but Giles got me to 
take his arm again, and set forth at a good pace with 
me over the sandy knolls and hollows. ‘ We shall bo 
there long before them,’ he repeated ; ‘ he must go over 
the bridge, for he can’t cross up there.’ Then we climbed 
a hill, and as we came down to the knoll where we were 
to wait he indulged in a series of what, in talking of 
his sister Emily’s laugh, he had called ‘ ecstatic little 
chuckles.’ 

‘I am afraid Valentine would go up there after us, 

1 said ‘ and expect to find a bridge.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8, 


631 


‘Then he would have to come back again, said 
Giles, ‘ for he would never think of the wheelbarrow, 
and if he did he could not jump over to it ; besides, it 
is such a slight affair that Jane’s foot would break in 
the bottom of it.’ 

‘You are very tiresome to-day; I hardly know you ! 
Valentine won’t like my not walking with him.’ 

‘ Then he shouldn’t have done it ! ’ 

‘ He had nothing at all to do with it,’ I answered, 
not pretending to misunderstand him ; ‘ it was entirely 
my doing. Why should you expect me to debar my- 
self from the society of my friends ? ’ I continued, but 
I could not help laughing. 

‘Jane Wilson does not care for me a single straw,’ 
he said as we sat down on the knoll. ‘ How should 
she ? we have been familiarly acquainted with one an- 
other all our lives. No,’ he repeated, ‘not a single 
straw.’ 

‘ Oh, doesn’t she ? ’ I thought, but I did not say a 
word, and this was lucky, for he added quite deliberately, 
‘ And as for me, I do assure you that I would rather be 
hanged to-morrow — than marry her ! ’ 

‘ No one asks you to marry her,’ I exclaimed. 

‘Yes, you are all always asking me to marry her! 
It’s no use. — There they are, a mile off, skirting the 
cliff. Even at this distance, I can see how gloriously 
sulky Val is.’ 

‘ No wonder, poor fellow, he has got to go all round 
the promontory, on the beach, and we have just crossed 
the top.’ 

‘ You will not tell him what I have been saying? ’ 

‘ No,’ I answered ; and I sat demurely beside him, 
thinking how cross Valentine would be at ray not 
having managed better. 

‘You made me do it, you know,’ he continued. 

Giles had a very keen sense of the comical side of 
things, and when he saw Jane Wilson plunging through 
the shingle, and Valentine disconsolately peering up for 
us in all directions but the right one, he said, ‘ But you 
won’t let this sort of thing hap])en again, will you ? * 


632 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


then he uttered another short laugh, and finished it up 
with such a heart-sick sigh, that I turned quite sur- 
prised to look at him. 

‘ What is the matter? ’ I exclaimed involuntarily. 

‘ Nothing’s the matter that I know of,’ he answered, 
‘ excepting,’ — and then he actually laughed again, — 
‘ excepting that I’m so miserable.’ 

‘ Oh ! ’ I answered almost in dismay, ‘ I hope you’re 
not in earnest.’ 

‘ I can’t help sighing now and then,’ lie replied ; ‘ I 
suppose it has become a habit with me.’ Then looking 
up, and observing my surprise and anxiety, he said, 
‘ It’s quite true, I assure you ; you cannot imagine how 
perfectly miserable I am.’ 

I continued to look at him, and really did not know 
what to say. 

‘ And it makes me so restless that I don’t know what 
to do with myself,’ he went on. 

‘ I hope as you have told me this you will tell me 
something more,’ I presently said. 

‘ I did not mean to tell you : I am only goaded intc 
doing it now on account of Jane.’ 

‘ But is it quite out of the question that I might be 
able to help in some way, if I knew something more ? 

‘ There’s not the least use,’ he answered, ‘ in my tell- 
ing any one anything.’ 

‘ Are you so very sure that I can do nothing at all ? ’ 

‘No,’ he said. ‘It worries me to have them all con- 
stantly teasing me about Jane. If that could be pre- 
vented, I should be grateful.’ 

‘ I will try ; and I am not going to ask any question, 
— only going to make a remark.’ 

He sighed as he sat by me plucking the little plants 
cf cyebright, and looking at their tiny flowers. ‘ Noth- 
ing that you can say will be of any avail,’ he answered. 
‘ Valentine is not to know of this ? ’ 

‘No,’ I replied. 

‘ Nor any one else ? ’ 

‘ Nor any one else ; but I am going to make m'l 
remark, and it does not call for any answer.’ 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


* 533 


‘ Well ? * he answered ; ‘ I am listening.’ 

‘ I wish to say that I think it quite improbable — « 
quite out of all nature — that it should fall to the lot 
of one man to be twice the victim of a deep, faithful, 
and perfectly hopeless love.’ 

He made me no, answer, and after a long pause I 
went on, — ‘ Women can often give some help in these 
cases : would it not be possible to get this lady, who- 
ever she is, to come and stay here? or could not we go 
and stay where she is ? I hope this is not quite out of 
your reach.’ 

I said this because I had a fear that it might be one 
particular person who I felt sure was out of his reach. 

‘ Yes, she is,’ he answered, with a faltering in his 
voice, and a degree of humility that made me hate for 
the moment the woman I had in my thoughts. ‘ She is 
far out of my reach, and far above me too ; but she is 
so inexpressibly sweet, that I do really think, some- 
times, I shall break my heart about her.’ 

‘ Oh then,’ I thought to myself, ‘ I am certainly 
wrong ; however infatuated he may be, he never could 
apply such words as inexpressibly sweet to that proud, 
cold maypole ! ’ 

I sat quite still beside him, considering in my mind 
the lovely sister of this said maypole, and wondering 
whether first his ambition and then his love might have 
brought him to her feet, and I thought she was not so 
utterly out of his reach ; but while I was considering 
whether I could venture to allude to her, he looked up 
and said, with a catch in his voice, ‘ It's very unfortu- 
nate for me, isn’t it ? ’ Then he sprang up suddenly 
and said, ‘ There ! they will be here in a quarter of an 
hour. Do you mind my leaving you and going over 
the cliffs?’ 

‘ Oh yes, indeed I do, because the cows come over 
the cliffs sometimes, and they have such long horns I 
don’t like them. Do stay till Valentine comes. 1 
don’t want to say another word about this, now or ever 
excepting that I think only marriage can make any at* 
tachment truly hopeless.’ 


634 


OFF THE 8KELL108. 


He answered in a very low voice, ‘ I agree witli yon^’ 

I was deeply sorry then. I considered that there 
was indeed nothing more to be said, and as he leaned 
his chin upon his hand and gazed out seaward, evi- 
dently thinking of this ill-starred love, his whole face 
was so changed, so softened, and so full of passionate 
feeling, that the little remains of resentment and re- 
serve I had felt towards him all melted away, and I 
began to talk to him of various things that I thought 
ought to give him comfort and pleasure, and supply a 
meaning to his life. He had rescued so many families, 
I reminded him, from poverty and wretchedness, there 
was hardly any part of the world where somebody was 
not doing well whom he had taken there. 

‘Yes,’ he answered after a pause; ‘do you know I 
have taken out more than two hundred people ? I was 
counting them up the other day.’ 

So on that hint I spoke, and administered a little of 
that harmless flattery which an unhappy man generally 
finds pleasant; and as he sat and listened with his chin 
in his hand he began to look rather less moody, till at 
last, as the absentees approached, he lifted up his head, 
and went down with me to meet them. Valentine was 
exceedingly out of temper ; I had never seen him any- 
thing like so cross; and Jane Wilson was so deter- 
minedly silent that I saw she was displeased. With 
great difliculty I managed to put Valentine in better 
humor, and induce Jane to answer a few remarks about 
the spleenwort. But the walk dragged on wearily till, 
turning one of the cliffs, we met a whole posse of peo- 
ple whom we knew, got mingled among them, Jane 
was carried on to sail with them, Giles climbed the 
cliffs and made off, and Valentine and I being left 
alone, became cheerful and good-humored directly. 

I felt quite uncomfortable about Giles till I saw him 
again, which I did the next day, looking just as usual. 

I came through the house and beheld him and Valen- 
tine seated on a garden border, each in a kitchen chair, 
the back legs whereof were deeply embedded in the 
mould. 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


535 


That garden was a sight to be seen ! It was fhll of 
somewhat straggling and neglected rose-trees, and on 
their account Giles had hired the house, giving an ex- 
tra half-guinea a week on consideration that he should 
be allowed to bud and graft all these trees, as well as 
some miserable plum and cherry trees, as much as he 
liked. 

It was supposed to be a line thing to know how to 
bud and graft trees if one was going to live in a new 
country, and I can only say I hope those trees liked it. 

Valentine was sitting before a large rose-bush which 
was absolutely covered with ‘ buds ; ’ he was arrayed in 
a large white gardener’s apron, and was now going to 
begin to graft. He had a wash-tub half full of clay be- 
side him, and Giles was kneading some of it in his 
shapely hands. 

‘ How tiresome of you, D. dear, to be so late ! ’ said 
Valentine, ‘when you know I have to go and bathe 
almost directly.’ 

Giles turned away to his plum-tree with a lump of 
clay in his palm. I saw at once that he was in a very 
different humor from that of the day before. As I 
came in I had heard him whistling the air of the min- 
uet in Samson; and I now saw that in a certain way 
he was enjoying himself. His coat and waistcoat were 
off, and having made at different times nineteen clay 
puddings, which he called grafts, all over the miserable 
mossy little tree, he was now finishing a twentieth. 

He had got so accustomed to the aspect of the tree 
that when Valentine brought me up to it, and I gave 
way to irresistible laughter, he looked at first quite sur- 
prised. 

‘ What is the matter with it ? ’ he exclaimed, step 
ping up to observe it from the same point of view ; ‘ I 
really flattered myself that it looked like business.’ 

‘ Oh,’ I answered, ‘ it is such a wretched sickly little 
object, and the puddings are so large ; and, besides, all 
this bass, and tape, and ribbon that you’ve tied them 
up with look so forlorn fluttering about.’ 

‘ I was obliged to tie them up,’ he answered, laugh* 


536 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


ifig in his turn, ‘because some of them tumbled dcwn 
Yes, I see it has rather a mangy effect! ’ 

The ground underneath was strewed with lumps that 
looked a little like swallows’ nests, and almost all its 
leaves had been picked off. 

‘ Every tree, D. dear, in the garden over there will 
look exactly like this when he has done them,’ 
said Valentine with suave gravity; ‘but now I must 
go. Sit down in this chair till I come back,’ — he 
brought up one of the kitchen chairs, — ‘don’t stir. 
Giles must not be left without any protection,’ he added 
in a loud whisper, and off he set. 

I was perfectly sdent for at least ten minutes ; then 
Giles said, ‘ This is all your doing.’ 

‘ Yes, I know; and I am very penitent.’ 

Something comic seemed to occur to him, for he 
parted the little twigs that he might see me better, 
and looking me in the face said deliberately, ‘ It’s not 
Miss Tott;’ then he let the leafy twigs go together 
again, went on with his work, and I heard him laugh- 
ing. I could hardly believe it ; and yet if he was not 
telling me that it was not Miss Tott who was the object 
of this hopeless love, I could not tell what he meant. 

‘Not Miss Tott!’ I repeated in amazement. 

‘Yes, I feel that you must have been speculating 
about this, and it really is very hard upon you, for you 
can make no investigation, because, you know, you 
said of your own accord that you should never allude 
to the subject again either to me or to any one else, — 
“ now or at any future time,” were your words I think.’ 

‘Yes,’ I said, for I understood his hint, ‘and I never 
will, — never ! ’ 

‘ Thank you ; and so I thought you might be glad to 
know that it was not Miss Tott.’ 

‘ Dear Mr. Brandon, how can you be so ridiculous ! ’ 

‘ For you looked so wistfully at me just now that — * 

‘1 beg your pardon; I promise you not to do it 
again.’ 

I heard that same heart-sick sigh ; but he presently 
said in his usual tone, ‘ I hate to be commiserated 


OFF THE 8KELL108, 


637 


How Miss Tott would have enjoyed to hear my 
confession of yesterday! But even now I’m not 
crushed ! ’ 

. ‘What could have put it into your head to think 
I should suppose her to have anything to do with 
it? We never did anything but laugh at her, poor 
thing.’ 

‘ No ; I was far from thinking of love then ; but as I 
told you I was in London when I fell into this pit — ’ 

‘ You never did,’ I answered, very much confirmed in 
my fear that the lovely sister of the maypole was his 
love. ‘ Why should we talk of this sorrowful matter 
any more ? ’ 

The Wilsons had chanced to mention a certain family 
that very morning, and without any question on my 
part it had come out that this lady was lately married. 

‘ N o,’ he answered ; ‘ why, indeed ? And that reminds 
me that Valentine has been taking upon himself to 
lecture me this morning and yesterday. The airs that 
boy gives himself, now he is engaged, are perfectly 
irresistible.’ 

‘ That boy ! ’ I repeated rather indignantly. 

‘Yes,’ said Giles, laughing at the recollection of it 
‘ He can’t bear to hear me call you Miss Graham^ 

‘ It does seem rather formal, because you know I 
shall be your sister soon.’ 

‘ He asked me to call you D., as he does.’ 

‘ And what did you say ? ’ 

‘I said I wouldn’t.’ 

‘You did ?’ 

‘Yes, I hate mc^names. By the by, you don’t like 
my Christian name ; it’s because you don’t like me.’ 

‘ I shall continue to call you Mr, Brandon? 

‘But Valentine is very anxious that we “ should like 
each other better,” — that was how he phrased it,’ said 
Giles ; ‘ and he made me promise to tell you so.’ 

‘ I suppose we shall, then, for his sake^ I answered, 
feeling a little piqued. I felt my face cover itself with 
blushes, and yet I managed to stammer out, as Giles 
was behind the tree, ‘ I hope — indeed I am sure, that 
23 * 


688 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


Valentine has never had the least hint of what — 
what may hav(», caused me once to feel some resent- 
ment.’ 

‘ Of course not,’ said Giles earnestly ; and, to my 
great discomfiture, coming forward and facing me. 
‘ How could you think so ? ’ 

He retreated to his work when I turned my face 
away fi’om him. I thought if we were ever to be 
friends, now was the time ; and I said, — 

‘You have never told me that you were aware you 
had made a mistake.’ 

‘ But I am aware of it,’ he answered hastily ; ‘ deeply, 
painfully aware.’ 

‘ That is quite enough to say,’ I answered ; ‘ I shall 
feel quite differently now. I shall be so much pleased, 
so thankful to forget it.’ 

‘ I thought yesterday that you had forgotten it,’ said 
Giles. ‘No one who felt any resentment could have 
tried to comfort me as you did.’ 

‘I did forget it. Do you think I have no feeling? 
do you think now that I have no regard for you at all ? 
do you think that no human sorrow touches me — ’ 

I tried to twinkle away two tears that had gathered 
under my eyelids, but they would trickle down, and 
I was obliged to take out my handkerchief to wipe 
them away. 

‘ I will call you anything you like,’ said Giles, quite 
in his ordinary tone. ‘ I was only joking when I found 
fault with the nickname. What can it matter to a 
fellow with such a weight on his mind as I have?’ 

And then there came a pause, and it distressed me to 
hear a sound uncommonly like a short sob behind the 
tree; but in two minutes Valentine was half-way down 
the garden, and Giles had met him and was making 
game of him because the sun had caught his nose and 
made it red. 

‘ That comes,’ said Giles, ‘ of having a complexion 
like a lady’s.’ 

‘Look at D.,’ answered Valentine, ‘the sea nevei 
tans her.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG 8 . 539 

* No,’ I replied, ‘ and I wish it would ; it would make 
me look older.’ 

‘ You are afraid we shall be a ridiculously young- 
looking couple! That is the fact,’ said Valentine. 

‘ But I consider that I look quite grown-up now,” 
was my youthful answer. 

‘You look seventeen, if you look a day,’ said Valen- 
tine, And he continued in a reassuring tone, ‘ You’ll 
look older in time.’ Thereupon he took me out for a 
walk, and told me with great glee that he had over- 
heard a group of people talking of me as he was lean- 
ing out of the window and I passed with Anne Molton. 
They said I had a figure like a sylph. 

‘ Yes,’ I answered, ‘ I’ve often heard that before. I 
don’t care about it at all.’ 

‘You ungrateful little thing,’ said Valentine, ‘ what 
would you have ? ’ 

‘ The reason you think me so little,’ I replied, ‘ is 
because you’re so big. I’m nearly as tall as the major- 
ity of women.’ 

‘And they said,’ he continued, ‘ that you had the 
sweetest and most innocent face the)'” had ever seen.’ 

‘ I don’t care about that either,’ I answered laughing ; 

‘ for you would never have found it out unless these 
strangers had put it into your head.’ 

‘ Oh ! it signifies what I think then, does it ? W ell 
now, what do you think of my appearance ? Am I 
handsome ? ’ 

‘Very handsome ! ’ 

‘ Perhaps,’ he said, ‘ you’ll tell me you don’t care 
about that either.’ 

‘ I shall if you ask me ! But now let us be grave, 
and let me tell you what I mean.’ 

‘ All right,’ he answered, ‘ but I don’t believe you 
know yourself what you mean.’ 

‘Yes, I do. I wish it had been my lot to have a 
more womanly and mature air, so that people would 
iiave expected more of me, and by treating me as if 
;hey did would have helped me to be something 
more — ’ 


540 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


‘Ab! we have aspirations — bang aspirations 1 I 
never had any, but I’m always the victim of other 
people’s aspirations on my account.’ 

‘Yes, but do have some now! We both of us 
want dignity. Aspire to manly dignity, will you? and 
take a more serious view of things in general.’ 

‘You mean,’ said Valentine, exploding with laugh- 
ter, ‘ that you’ve seen “ V. M.” cut on the bathing-ma- 
chines — ’ 

‘ No, I haven’t.’ 

‘ That is because you didn’t look, then 1 I’ve cut 
those harmonious initials on every one of them. Now, 
if you’ll promise solemnly never to talk to me in this 
way again, I on my part promise that I won’t — ’ 

‘ Won’t what, Valentine ? ’ 

‘ Won’t cut them on the pier.’ 

He laughed with delight when he had said thus, for 
he saw he had taken me in, and obliged me to laugh 
too. 

‘ If you had seen Giles and me at six o’clock yester- 
day morning,’ he presently said, ‘ you would have been 
quite satisfied both about our manly dignity and our 
earnest views of life.’ 

‘ What did you do ? ’ 

‘ We took one of those kitchen chairs into the lane. 
I sat upon it. There are some lovely crab-trees in the 
lane, D. dear. Giles got up into one of them, and 
made three puddings in it. Two girls, who were going 
by with milk to sell, stopped, and when they saw what 
we were about, they perfectly yelled with laughter. I 
don’t know how it is, but our puddings are so big ! I 
grafted the lower boughs at the same time. Next year 
that tree will burst out with all sorts of green fruit.’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


/>41 


CHAPTER XXX. 

'Lose not thine own for want of asking for it: ’twill get thee no 
thanks.’ — Fuller. 

A S the Wilsons continued to stay at our little sea* 
side retreat, they gradually diminished our pleas- 
ure, and at last took almost all of it away. They 
made acquaintances with several other families, they 
invited friends of their own to stay with them, and 
introduced them to us ; so that we were now almost 
always in a large company. Valentine liked this better 
than I did ; he was naturally more sociable, and now 
that we were engaged, and he was sure of me, I did not 
wish that he should feel me to be any burden, and would 
not be exacting, so I took care to press his acceptance 
of every invitation that he seemed pleased with, though 
sometimes Liz and Mrs. Henfrey would excuse them- 
selves, and consequently I did not go. I reflected that 
he would have little chance of this kind of pleasure in 
New Zealand ; yet, though I knew he could easily do 
without it when the time came, I resolved never to be 
the means of hastening it. 

I thought afterwards that it was a pity I had been so 
anxious to be obliging ; for it was evidently, then, his 
business, and more according to the nature of things, 
that he should have been anxious about obliging me ; 
and I have several times observed that nobody thanks 
one for giving up what is clearly one’s own, — not even 
the person for whom it is done ; for he either thinks it 
is all right, which is a pity, — or he knows it is not all 
right, and by accepting it lowers himself, — or he does 
not think about it, which is nearly as bad. 


542 


OFF THE SKELLiaa. 


It was not V aleiitine’s fault that 1 encouraged him to 
do exactly as he pleased, or that he was already master 
of the situation ; and I cannot be angry with him now, 
when I reflect how much pleasure he gave me often 
and long, and in the end more than in the beginning. 

I was quite aware that comfortable as we were in each 
other’s companionship, cosey as were our confidences, and 
cheerful our chats over the future, we were not what is 
popularly called ‘ in love.’ My aflection for him was an 
act of gratitude ; his affection for me was partly friend- 
ship, partly habit, and partly pride in the not unamiable 
notion of an early independence with a wife and a home 
of his own. 

All this sounds very prosaic, and I knew it was tame 
and commonplace ; but it was the only hope of not los- 
ing by long distance the kindest and freshest of com- 
panions. It was what was offered, and all that was 
ofiered. Why, then, was I to be left utterly alone in 
this hemisphere, with no one to work for but the people 
in my district, and no one to care for but Anne Molton, 
because I thought we might have loved each other 
more ! 

I was only to stay a few days longer at the seaside. 
We had agreed that we would be married late in 
January, and that Anne Molton should sail before our 
wedding, with three young women whom we had deter- 
mined to befriend, and with the two little darlings from 
Chartres. Their grandmother was dead, and Giles had 
asked Valentine whether he would ask me if I should 
like to have them with me. They had no provision, and 
if I would take the trouble of them, he would under- 
take to defray the expense. 

I agreed gladly. The little creatures were sent for, 
and came down by train to our watering-place, three 
days before I left it, with a stout bonne. Mr. Brandon 
went down to Southampton to fetch them, and I did 
not see them till they were seated, one on either side of 
him, on the lee side of a bathing-machine. 

They did not remember me, but the elder recollected 
him, and the little one was already charmed with him 


OFF THE SKELL108. 


543 


and his stories and his songs. I saw that they would 
be a great charge, but Giles was not to be refused any- 
thing, he had been so good to us. 

I sat down near them that I might see what spech-s 
of creatures they were. They had not forgotten their 
English. ‘ I like this place,’ said the eldest. ‘ I said to 
Marmotte that I wanted to go across the sea again.’ 

‘Yes,’ said the little one, ‘for now we can see some 
live ships. At Chartres we only saw dead old things 
that can’t sail, — horses had to drag them.’ 

As she spoke she stroked Mr. Brandon’s face and hair 
all over with her soft hands, — it was evident that this 
little one was the favorite, — and the elder sat by 
gravely and quietly, not thinking of taking such liber- 
ties, but quite at home. 

‘Now sing to us again,’ she demanded, laying her 
head on his shoulder,* and beginning to suck her thumb ; 
‘ sing to us about the Star and the Holy Babe.’ 

Giles complied, and when he ceased the elder child 
said, ‘ He makes me cry.’ 

‘ That’s because you are silly. Look at me, I hear 
him sing, and I don’t cry. Now tell us about the bears, 

— another story, quite a new one, about white bears ; 
but they are not to kill anything.’ 

* What are they to eat then ? ’ 

‘ Why, — why,’ pursing up her little mouth and con- 
sidering, — ‘ they can eat some of those animals that 
were drowned in the flood, and never went into the ark, 

— can’t they ? ’ 

The ever-compliant narrator accordingly compounded 
a story to order, — a story of white bears, describing 
their dens, their young cubs, and their dinners, also 
their amusements on the ice, and how they growled 
when they were angry. This last was by far the most 
popular part of the entertainment, and was repeated 
several times with renewed applause. In the mean time 
the French nurse sat all amazement at the infatuati<m 
of the two young English bachelors, for Valentine was 
almost as fond of children as St. George, and sat softly 
whistling and contemplating them with amiable curios* 


544 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


Ity. I was delighted, for they were the freshest and 
simplest little creatures in the world, and when Giles 
obligingly assured Valentine that they would never 
give any trouble w^orth mentioning, and Valentine said, 
‘ Of course not,’ I did not say a word. I thought if 
there was anything to be found out time would reveal 
it as far as he was concerned; and men are seldom able 
to estimate correctly the amount of trouble that domes- 
tic matters give to women, these two brothers being 
both very good examples of the fact. 

And now the day came when I was to return to Lon- 
don. It was not thought proper that Valentine should 
escort me ; I therefore went up with Anne Molton. 
There was much to be done : my outfit to get ready, 
and many things to be bought for future comfort, 
specially books to select, seeds of all kinds, cutlery, and 
everything likely to be wanted in a house, that did not 
come under the name of actual furniture. 

I felt a sort of pang at leaving that sweet place ; it 
was to be my last sojourn at an English village by the 
sea. This was like taking leave of my country ; I 
should see little more of it, but remain with Anne in 
London till within a week of my wedding-day ; then 
she was to take me down to Wigfield, for it had been 
agreed that I should be married there. This would be 
the most convenient plan, for Mrs. Ilenfrey and Liz 
could not come up to London at that time of the year, 
and there was no need to consider Tom’s or my uncle’s 
convenience, for neither intended to be present. So I 
left everything to Mrs. Henfrey, and she arranged that 
lAz should be my one bridesmaid, and that Mr. Brandon 
should give me away. 

The whole party, including the children, escorted mo 
and Anne to the railway station, and the last wmrds 
were spoken and the last kisses given with much laugh- 
ing and joking on both sides. When I say words and 
kisses, I do not speak of any words but such as all could 
hear; Valentine and I had no private leave-taking. 
He was particular in his directions respecting the pat- 
tern of the dinner-service, which was left to me to 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


645 


chov3S€, and also respecting the fashion and mateiial of 
my wedding-gown ; but no nearer interests troubled us. 
Th*.‘ kisses also were given by the ladies; Valentine 
did not offer one ; indeed I should not have accepted it 
if he had. 

But he and I were becoming very much attached to 
each other notwithstanding, and I pleased myself with 
thinking that his style of affection was likely to grow 
and last. He was not an intellectual young man, but 
ho was clear-headed, and particularly reasonable. His 
affection for me was of a reasonable kind. ‘Why 
fchould I expect you to be faultless ? ’ he once said ; ‘ I 
am full of faults myself.’ And when I remarked one 
day, as I still sometimes did, that I hoped we really 
were sufficiently attached to each other to be happy, he 
replied, ‘ Affection is a habit' as well as an instinct ; it 
is sure to strengthen, do not be afraid of that ; and we 
shall soon have all our interests in common. That 
is a very great thing. Besides, I want to be my owe 
master.’ 

‘ And mine,’ I observed. ‘ I think you have aspirations 
at last, and they are in that direction.’ 

‘ Perhaps so, dearest. Besides, you know, I always 
said I would marry very young.’ 

‘ But Prentice put that into your head.’ 

‘ So he did, and good luck to him for it.’ 

‘You would never have thought of it but for him.’ 

‘ I am not at all sure of that. I believe you would 
have put it into my head if he hadn’t. Besides, what’s 
the good of haggling about it? — Pll tell you another 
aspiration I have, and that is to make St. George really 
like you.’ 

‘ Why, what makes you think he does not ? ’ I asked. 

‘ Oh, you know very well that he doesn’t, D. Besides, 
I told you the other day that I had taxed him with it 
and told him he ought to be more cordial.’ 

‘ What did he answer? You never told me that.’ 

‘Fo. Well, he answered, “Then you shouldn’t be 
always talking about her. Pm tired of your everlasting 
twaddle about Miss Graham.” ’ 

n 


546 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘ Then, pray don’t weary him any more in that way. 

‘ Easier said than done, you blessed. creature !’ 

Poor St. George ! I could easily fancy how painful 
it must be to him to hear Valentine (mlarging on the 
pleasures of love and domestic life ; and yet I knew as 
well as Valentine did that, though he tried to overcome 
his coldness towards me, he had never been really able 
to do so since our quarrel in the wood. 

‘ And so you told him to be more friendly and affec- 
tionate to me ? ’ I asked. 

‘Yes, and he laughed and said you kept him at a 
distance. He said also, “ Depend upon it, I like her a 
great deal better than she likes me.” ’ 

I felt then he was a man who could forget nothing. 
I had even brought myself to get an acknowledgment 
from him which enabled me to treat him as if the scene 
in the wood had never occurred ; and sometimes, when 
the weight on his heart oppressed him, he had shown 
himself glad of my sympathy. I had even seen him 
more than once deliberately try to be cordial ; try to be 
familiar, for Valentine’s sake. But it was no use, the 
old feeling soon recurred, and the old manner. 

I thought often on this conversation for the first day 
or two of my return to London ; but I had a great deal 
to do, and Valentine’s delightful letters soon pushed it 
into the background. 

I helped Anne Molton to make the whole of my 
wedding outfit, which was the more ample because I 
knew that at the Antipodes I should have little leisure 
for needlework, and few shojjs to make purchases in. 
I also helped Anne with her own outfit, and gave my 
tliree protegees a lesson daily in reading and writing: 
I wanted them to be able to read their Bibles, and 
write home to their friends when I took them far away 
from those friends, and far away perhaps from all 
earthly instructors. 

So very busy going about shopping ; so very busy 
packing and choosing merchandise, crockery, seeds, 
books, drapery, and cutlery ; so very busy learning the 
mysteries of bread-making, crust-making, pudding- mak- 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


547 


ing, ^c., &c., that I was not conscious of a certain little 
fact till an ignorant servant-maid pointed it out to me. 

1 was sitting in the parlor, Mrs. Bolton was out, as 
she so often was, giving a lesson, — a postman’s knock 
came to the door. I thought nothing of it, the door 
was open, and Anne Molton met the west-country ser- 
vant-maid in the passage. 

‘ Is that for Miss Graham ? ’ Anne said. 

‘ Ay, it’s for she ; her don’t get so many letters as hei 
used to do, do her ? ’ 

She brought in a letter from Valentine, and as I held 
it in my hand I happened to look up at Anne Molton, 
and saw that my glance troubled her. She was con- 
sidering whether I had heard the speech of the house- 
maid. And when she had left me to my letter, the 
words seemed to ring in my ears, — ‘ Her don’t get so 
many letters as her used to do, do her ? ’ 

I put down the letter before I read it, and smiled at 
myself for the momentary pang I had felt. What if he 
did write somewhat seldomer? was he not as busy as 
myself, learning all sorts of things that were likely to 
prove useful to us both, and paying hurried visits to 
numerous relatives and friends What if he did write 
rather seldomer? had not I also written rather sel- 
domer myself ? I opened the letter, — the dear, kind, 
affectionate letter, — in which he alluded to his not writ- 
ing so often, and hoped I knew it was because he was 
BO busy and so much hurried from place to place. It 
was a short letter, written late in the evening, and 
more full of excuses than of news, — as if 1 wanted 
him to be always afraid of annoying me or of making 
me uneasy ! I sat down at once and answered the let- 
ter. I told him not to imagine that I was of an exact- 
ing turn ; that I was satisfied in the possession of his 
affection, and did not want him to rob himself of rest 
in order to assure me of its continuance, — a circum- 
stance that I had never doubted. 

That was by far the most affectionate letter I had 
ever written to him, and it did me good ; it made me 
feel so secure and so trustful. I believe I had a kind 


548 


OFF THE 8KELL1US. 


of fooling that being such a letter as it was, it was 
almost sure of an answer in a day or two, if not even 
by return of post ; and I set to my work again, after 
it was written, with a cheerful heart. 

But an answer did not come ; and when I had 
waited as long as usual, and two or three days longer, 
I almost wished he had not taken me so completely at 
my word. But he was a man, and I was a woman. I 
had taken great pains to make him suppose that I was 
above, or devoid of, all the little weaknesses and ex- 
actions and anxieties of my sex. He was treating me 
therefore as if I were a man — taking me at my word, 
and paying me the compliment to believe it ; for when 
the letter did come (and it came at last) it was short, 
and contained no allusion to what I had said, but con- 
tained a droll account of some cricket matches at which 
he had been present, and a compliment to me on my 
good sense, which did not expect him to find time to 
write as often when his hands were full as when he had 
nothing to do. 

Dear fellow ! I accepted the compliment, and tried 
to be pleased with it, and to be sure that the shortness 
of his letter was no more than I might reasonably 
expect. 

Letters, at least the letters of most people, become 
unsatisfactory after long absence. At first, after they 
have parted, there are fresh recollections and increased 
familiarity to make them easy ; but after a time, ii peo- 
ple care for each other very much, and are sensitive, 
there are frequently misunderstandings, which would 
occur in personal intercourse and be soon set right, but 
which, brooded over between the letter and its answer, 
derive an importance that they do not deserve. 

So long as people keep to the relation of facts in 
their letters, and think they know each other well 
enough, all is easy ; but if they go from facts to opin- 
ions and feelings, if they anxiously desire to know each 
other more and more, it is very hard to do this by such 
means. There is not the tell-tale human voice, and the 
changing human eye to help them to this further ac- 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


649 


quaintance. The mystery that we want to penetrate^ 
the soul that we want to reach with our soul, cannot 
unveil itself to us on a sheet of paper, even if it yearn 
to do so, and is willing to let us know as much as we 
can understand. 

Some such thought as this was often in my mind 
when, recollecting how I had written to him, I read his 
answers. I wrote from within, he answered from with* 
out ; I wrote what I felt, he of what had happened. 
‘ Ah, well,’ I thought, ‘we shall soon be always together, 
and then I know I can get you to tell me whatever I 
please.’ It was a new phase in his character to shrink 
as it were from inspection, and it interested though it 
teased me. Once he had been too open, too careless 
about the impression that might be made by his words 
and actions ; he did not sufficiently sort his thoughts 
and ideas, but poured them out just as they came to 
the surface : now I perceived a certain caution in his 
letters ; he was more anxious to please me ; he often 
apologized for not writing oftener, and sometimes ob- 
served that he felt he was unworthy of me, which was 
such a very new view of things for him to take that the 
first time he advanced it I could not help laughing, and 
then, blushing, felt that perhaps he was falling in love 
with me after all ! 

But by Christmas I began to feel really uneasy at the 
few letters I got and their shortness ; they were afibc- 
tionate, but restrained ; and I longed for the time when 
we should meet, for it was of no use writing to inquire 
the reason of these changes, it only did harm. Some- 
times I felt almost afraid that so early a marriage and 
entrance on the grave responsibilities of life was be- 
ginning to be an alarming idea to him ; but this notion 
I would not allow myself to entertain long, for he was 
always interested in my accounts of my purchases, par- 
ticularly about the pattern of the tea-service, and elo- 
quent in his descriptions of the pups he was bringing 
up to take with him, and the guns he had bought, and 
fisliing-tackle, and tools. 

So I worked on till the last of my gowns was fia* 


bbO 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


ished, till my wedding-dress, veil, and wreath were 
packed up, till I had taken my leave of the poor people, 
and of Miss Tott, the only acquaintance I had in Lon- 
don, and till, having paid all my bills, I found myself 
seated in the cab and driving with Anne Molton to the 
railway station to proceed to Wigfield. 

It wanted only a week to the day fixed for my wed- 
ding. I had a letter from Mrs. Henfrey in my hand in 
which she fixed the train I was to come by. Valentine 
was in Derbyshire, but he would be home in time to 
meet me ; and she particularly hoped I would take 
care of a box which she had ordered a man to bring to 
me at the station ; it must come in the carriage with 
me, and I was to keep my eye on it, for it contained 
my wedding-cake. 

Droll that I should take my own cake down with me ! 
it made me smile through my tears, for I was shedding 
a few natural tears. At the station I was to part with 
Anne Molton — my dear, faithful, loving friend, Anne 
Molton. 

We kissed each other when I was seated in the car- 
riage, and she wished me joy. I watched her as the 
train steamed rapidly out of the station, and felt that I 
had parted with the only friend I had in the world who 
was not of my future husband’s family, or utterly out 
of my reach and beyond my ken. In two days she was 
to sail, and as we did not mean to do so till about six 
weeks after our marriage, we hoped she would be in our 
new home long enough before we reached it to make it 
ordc^y and comfortable. To her were intrusted the 
guns, the seeds, and all the purchases, except what I 
wanted for my own wearing. The pups, of course, 
were too precious to sail under ‘ feminine ’ superintend- 
ence ; so was Valentine’s cart, and the strong little 
basket-carriage that he had bought for my use. 

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when I 
reached the well-remembered station, and looked out in 
a flush of excitement that made me warm from head to 
foot. 

1 waited till I feared the train would be going on, 


OFF THE 8KELL10S. 


551 


then I put out my head, and when I said I was to stop 
at Wigfield, there was a good deal of bad language 
used among the men, which hurried me to the point of 
keeping my wonder at a distance. I got out of the 
carriage, and being desired to look sharp, ran with the 
guard to identify my luggage, which they were hauling 
about with furious haste ; and it was not till I saw it on 
the pavement, and the train in motion, that this wonder 
at Valentine’s absence returned. 

‘ Is the train before its time ? ’ I asked. 

‘ Quite contrary,’ was the gruff answer ; ‘ it’s a quar- 
ter of an hour late.’ 

I walked into the little waiting-room and sat down. 
At five o’clock, it being dark, and Valentine not come 
for me, I ordered a fly, and started by myself for the 
house. I was full of fear that I must have mistaken the 
day, and hoped, if I had, they would not suppose I had 
done it on purpose that I might be with them sooner. 

We reached the house and stopped. It became 
evident to me before I had crossed the hall that I was 
not expected ; and when the thin old footman left me 
in the morning-room, I felt as shy and as ashamed as if 
I had come unasked, and their neglect in being unpre- 
pared was entirely my own fault. 

A leisurely foot coming down the stairs — and a very 
rapid one directly after ! (Valentine’s I hoped.) The 
latter overtook the former at their foot. 

‘ Come here, and not met ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Brandon. 
‘Why, what does the fellow mean by it?’ 

‘Fellow, Giles!’ said Mrs. Henfrey; ‘how can you 
call your own brother such a name ? ’ 

There was nothing in the name, but there was in the 
tone. 

‘ He wrote,’ proceeded Mrs. Henfi-ey, ‘ and said he 
couldn’t come home to-day, and of course I supposed 
he had written to her to the same effect; he said he 
should.’ 

‘ Hang him!’ was the fraternal rejoinder; ‘ it’s a dis- 
grace to my house that she should have waited at that 
hole of a station, — on such an occasion too ! ’ 


OFF TEE 8KELLI0S. 


552 

‘Well, well,’ said Mrs. Henfrey soothingly, ‘and 
where have they put the poor child, I wonder?’ 

During this rapid colloquy I had just had time to 
advance to the door, and I now presented myself blush- 
ingly, and said, ‘ I am here, Mrs. Henfrey.’ The words 
‘ my house ’ had accounted to me for Mr. Brandon’s 
unusual heat almost at the moment when it astonished 
me. The sudden consciousness that I was /ns guest did 
not make me feel any the more at home, and I won- 
dered that I had not remembered it before. 

He had a bed-room candle in his hand, and when I 
appeared he cleared his rather irate face as quickly 
as he i^ossibly could, but was evidently vexed that I 
should have overheard the conversation, and began to 
nng for different servants and excite a considerable 
bustle, with a view, as it appeared, to my speedy accom- 
modation in what he was pleased to consider a suitable 
style for his brother’s bride elect. 

So I was shortly taken up-stairs and ensconced in the 
very best bed-room, with a crackling fire, and two 
large candles, and some big glasses, together with other 
luxuries to which I had become quite unaccustomed. 

I was not seriously uncomfortable at Valentine’s ab- 
sence. He had no doubt written to me, but the letter 
had not arrived in time to stop me. Mr. Brandon had 
only entered the house an hour before I did ; he had 
been away three days : therefore my first reception was 
quite accounted for, and when I made my appearance 
ii. the drawing-room ready dressed for dinner I felt 
contented and easy, the more so as they all greeted me 
with kindness. 

Two friends of Mr. Brandon’s arrived to dine with 
us, and during dinner there was plenty of conversation ; 
but as time wore on I felt less comfortable, because I 
had become aware that Mr. Brandon, though he talked, 
laughed, and exerted himself, stole a moment now and 
then to cogitate, and during these intervals of thought 
he had a puzzled and surprised air, wliich came over 
him many times during the evening, and gathered 
strength every time it occurred. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


558 


Wlien two people are deeply interested iii a third 
person, and are thinking of this said third, they some- 
times become conscious of each other’s thoughts. 

I was perfectly certain that St. George, like myself) 
was thinking of Valentine, and considering why he had 
not returned. We were both travelling on the same 
road, — the road to Derby, — and our spirits passed and 
ropassed each other on the way. 

Every one else was cheerful and gay. Mr. Brandon, 
despite these thoughtful intervals, contrived to keep 
them so. I talked as much as any one, but watched 
him, and soon found that he was avoiding my eye. He 
frequently addressed me or answered my questions 
without looking at me. There was something more to 
be disquieted at : he was aware, as well as myself, of 
this community of thoughts, and was trying to prevent 
my reading more of his. One of the strangers began to 
talk to me, and I was obliged to turn away and listen. 
When I was released I darted an anxious glance at him, 
and thrown off his guard, he involuntarily lifted his 
eyes. That peculiar change of countenance instantly 
took place which often follows a consciousness of detec- 
tion. I had become possessed of something which he 
wished to hide, and in spite of himself his face ac- 
knowledged the fact. 

‘ He will come by the nine o’clock train to-morrow 
morning of course,’ said St. George, as we parted for 
the night. 

Liz came up with me to my room, for we had been 
told that a number of boxes, six or eight, had come 
for me, and had been carried up to my room. 

They were marked No. 1, No. 2, &c., &c., and we got 
No. 1 opened, and found a letter in it from my uncle ; 
a curious formal letter, setting forth that he wished 
me all happiness in the married life, and that he had 
decided on giving me a trousseau in addition to what he 
had settled on me, Mr. Brandon, as I might be aw^are, 
being my trustee. Mrs. Brand had been sent by him 
to Paris to choose the trousseau, and he hoped I should 
approve it. 

24 


554 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


There was a letter also from Mrs. Brand. She had 
evidently taken great pleasure in her task, hoped I 
should like her taste, and reminded me that the gowns 
were sure to fit, for she had old ones of mine in her 
possession, and had taken them with her as guides. 

Neither of us had ever seen such a quantity of gran- 
deur before. Nothing could be more ridiculous than 
most of these beautiful dresses for a settler’s wife in 
New Zealand ; but we decided that I should wear a 
fresh one every day while 1 stayed at Wigfield, and we 
took one, a sort of morning robe of the softest white 
muslin, with a blue quilted satin petticoat, and in this 
it was agreed that I should appear before Valentine 
the next morning and completely take his breath 
away. 

Liz was in such perfectly good spirits, so secure that 
Valentine would come by the nine o’clock train, that 
she imparted all her tranquillity to me. But we both 
sat up so late, fascinated by the fine clothes, that we 
overslept ourselves the next morning, and were neithei* 
of us down to family prayers. 

We chanced to meet on the stairs, and I said to her, 
‘ What time do the letters come in ? ’ 

‘Not till the same train that brings Valentine,’ she 
answered, and she opened the dining-room door, and 
ushered me in with an air. 

We related the afifair of the boxes. 

‘ Isn’t this beautiful ? ’ exclaimed Liz. 

‘ Lovely,’ said Mrs. Henfrey ; ‘ walk about a little, my 
iear, that I may see it. Wonderful indeed are their 
wrrks at Paris.’ 

‘ V alentine will fall flat when he sees it,’ exclaimed 
Mr. Brandon. ‘ In fact it’s dangerous for any man to 
look at it ; I must have a screen.’ Whereupon he took 
one down from the chimney-piece, and held it between 
me and himself with affected alarm. 

‘ It’s like a baby’s robe, isn’t it ? ’ he said. 

‘A baby’s robe!’ repeated Liz: ‘why, it’s open in 
the front.’ 

‘Yes, but it’s made of white muslin,’ observed Mra 


OFF THE SKELLIG8, 555 

Ilenfrey ; ‘ that’s why he thinks so, and it’s all enriched 
with work and lace.’ 

‘ But I think that fluffy thing she wore last night was 
prettier still,’ continued St. George. ‘ When she came 
floating in she looked like a delicate cloud with two 
dove’s eyes in it.’ 

The imaginary beauty again ! but oh how coldly he 
spoke! and as I drew near to him I could not help say- 
ing softly, ‘ If 1 ever have a brother-in-law who admires 
my face — ’ 

‘ Which will soon be the case,’ he interrupted. 

‘ And he ever says to me the sort of thing you have 
said just now, I shall feel it.’ 

‘You shall feel it,’ he repeated, looking a little un- 
comfortable. 

‘ Yes, I shall wish — oh, so much ! — that I might ex- 
change the whole of his admiration for a very little of 
his regard.’ 

Neither of his sisters heard this speech. For the 
moment he looked a little ashamed. ‘ I’m going to 
give you a proof of my regard shortly,’ he said laugh- 
ing. ‘ I think you will consider it a very delicate 
attention.’ 

I saw that he alluded to some wedding present, and 
could not help blushing as I answered, ‘Thank you. 
You are sure it is not a proof merely of your gen- 
erosity ? I have had plenty of those already.’ 

‘ In all discussions with you I am sure to get the 
worst of it,’ he answered, as if amused and pleased. 
‘No, I think I may say this is a proof of my regard. 
Then — ‘ V alentine is sure to be infatuated about this 
blue thing,’ he presently added. 

‘I wish him to like it. I always want him to be 
pleased.’ 

‘ He shall be pleased,’ said St. George, ‘ or we’ll know 
the reason why. What shall I do to him if he is not ? 
Y ou may command me to any extent.’ And as he spoke, 
turning his face towards the window, I saw it change a 
little. The dog-cart was coming back, and Valentine, 
was rot in it 


556 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


lie presently went into the hall and met the servant, 
who was bringing in the letters on a tray, and as he 
rapidly sorted them 1 saw that there was not one for me. 

‘ Do you think he is ill ? ’ I whispered. 

‘ I had not thought so,’ he answered ; ‘ but it may be 
so. Yes, it must be so.’ 

We came back in silence, sat down to breakfast, and 
Mrs. Henfrey poured out the coffee before she opened 
her letters. Then she exclaimed, ‘Why, dear me, here 
is a letter from Mrs. Wilson, and she says poor dear Val- 
entine has caught such a terribly bad cold that he is in 
bed with it, and cannot possibly come home till Tues- 
day. On Tuesday she thinks he might come with safety.’ 

My heart leaped for joy : a bad cold, nothing woi’se, 
and here had I been dreading all sorts of things. I was 
quite angry for the moment with Giles for having also 
been uneasy. 

Mrs. Henfrey let Giles take the letter from her, and 
as he walked back to his place with it he read it through. 
Then he went and stood on the rug while he read it 
again. After which he tore it in half, and flung it ou 
the fire. 

‘ Oh, you should not have burnt my letter,’ said Mrs. 
Henfrey ; ‘ perhaps Dorothea would like to have seen it.’ 

I should have been pleased to see it, but was too glad 
of its contents to blame any one just then. 

‘ If you please, sir,’ said the thin footman, ‘ I’ve been 
to tlie station, and I can’t hear any tidings of the box.’ 

‘What box?’ asked Mrs. Henfrey of Giles. 

‘ A little box that Miss Graham left in the carriage, it 
seems ; at least the authorities say that it is not among 
her luggage.’ 

The cake box ! I had left it behind me ! 

I made many apologies, mingled with blushes. Mrs. 
Henfrey was terribly vexed, hoped it would be returned, 
had chosen the ornaments herself, and continued to 
lament till Mr. Brandon said, ‘Never mind! When VaJ 
comes home there will be time enough to order another ; 
and Miss Graham never ought to have been troubled 
with it,’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


667 


He spoke with an irritation that 1 had never seen him 
display towards Mrs. Henfrey, and that I well knew was 
not directed at her, but at Valentine. Poor fellow ! he 
could not help having a bad cold ; but I thought his 
brother considered that hardly any amount of sneezing 
and coughing ought to have kept him away from his 
bride elect. 

‘ It’s tiresome his being ill just now,’ said the moderate 
Mrs. Plenfrey. 

‘He had no business to catch cold,’ said Liz. 

‘ Oh,’ replied Mr. Brandon, suddenly turning round 
and taking his part, ‘ his colds never last more than three 
days. He’ll be here, no doubt, on Tuesday as fresh as 
ever.’ 

He ate his breakfast rather hastily, and said he was 
going out on business, and might possibly not be home 
that night. 

What was it that prompted me directly after break- 
fast to steal away to the staircase window and watch 
the groom bringing out his horse ? I hardly know, but 
I went next to look for the ‘Bradshaw,’ which I found 
on the table in the hall, and had taken in my hand just 
as he came hastily in with a plaid over his arm. 

‘You wanted this, Mr. Brandon?’ I said as, at sight 
of me, he started and stood irresolute. 

Pie admitted the fact. 

‘ The first train to Derby that stops here starts, I see, 
at 10.20.’ 

He looked quietly at me, and took the book in his 
hand. 

‘ What are you thinking of ? ’ he said. 

‘ I am thinking that you will not go to Derby.’ 

‘Why not?’ 

‘Unless you think Valentine very ill, in whict case 1 
believe you would take me with you.’ 

‘I could not possibly do that,’ Le answered hastily, 
and as if the very idea was painful to him. 

‘Then you do not think Valentine very ill? 

‘ No, I believe he has a bad cold.’ 

‘ Then why did you want to go to Derby ? ’ 


568 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


His eye searched my face, he looked peiplexed, and 
after a long pause he said frankly, ‘ I had a desire to go 
— I can hardly tell you why, it would disturb you,’ 

‘ I know why. Oh, how can you allow yourself to 
have such thoughts about your brother!’ 

‘ If he is tolerably well,’ answered Giles evasively, 
‘I could perhaps bring him with me.’ 

* Because he does not show a proper desire to come 
of his own accord ? Is that your thought ? I have no 
Buch thought ; — and if I had — ’ 

‘If you had?’ 

‘ It would still be the last thing I should wish that 
you should go and hasten him. I entirely trust him.’ 

Again he looked at me. ‘You ought to know him 
far better than I do,’ he said reflectively. 

‘Yes, I believe I do.’ 

He put the plaid slowly from his arm, and still 
thought; his brow cleared visibly under the process, 
and at last he said, ‘ I submit then ; it shall be as you 
please.’ 

I was truly glad to hear his horse sent back to the 
stables, and his plaid returned to his room ; but I was 
more glad to find that he was now really at his ease 
about Valentine. I had dispersed his fears, whatever 
they were, and in so doing had made myself more happy. 
W e passed a pleasant day, and a quiet Sunday followed. 
There were no visitors, and having nothing to do I 
listened to Mrs. Henfrey’s programme of the wedding- 
breakfast, and sometimes played with the children, and 
watched the descent of a heavy fall of snow, which fell 
with wearying persistence, kept us in the house, and 
debarred us from having any callers. 

On Monday there was no letter, but, as Mrs. Henfrey 
remarked, Val had never been a good correspondent; 
and no doubt did not want to write when he was com- 
ing so soon. 

St. George was apparently quite comfortable ; he 
believed, I suppose, that my view was the right one, 
and reflected that the lover, though not ardent, waa 
doubtless true. 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


559 


He was really kind that day, and seemed willing to 
relieve my suspense. He read aloud to us in the morn- 
ing, and was full of talk and argument. I was a good 
deal excited; I could not help it. I was just in that 
state when all the faculties being more awake than 
usual, and all the senses more keen, it was almost impos- 
sible for me to talk with men and women without find- 
ing some application to myself in their words that they 
had never intended. The children were my only safe 
companions. I began to fancy that the servants (per- 
haps it was not all fancy) looked at me furtively, with 
a kind of pitying wonder, and that Mrs. Henfi*ey treated 
me with a distinction which was due to Valentine’s 
absence more than to my position ; moreover that Mr. 
Brandon’s cheerfulness was partly put on. He had not 
been formerly in the habit of singing snatches of songs 
about the house, or exciting a noise in the sitting-rooms 
with his dogs. Neither had he been in the habit of 
speaking of Valentine with the kind of regretful interest 
that he now bestowed upon him, as if he was making 
up to the poor fellow in his own mind for the suspicions 
that he had harbored respecting him. 

He was a proud man. That any member of his 
family should do a disgraceful or dishonorable thing 
would have touched him to the quick ; and he little 
suspected that I, on my part, was thinking it both dis- 
graceful and dishonorable in him to have harbored 
the suspicions that I knew had tormented him. 

‘ There,’ said Mrs. Henfrey at dessert time, ‘ Fve got 
a nut with two kernels. They used to say that with 
one such in each hand you could tell your own fortune.’ 

‘ Telling one’s own fortune,’ observed Mr. Brandon, 
‘ would be something like looking into a well.’ 

‘ Why so ? ’ I inquired. 

‘ If you look into a well you may see what you please : 
the reflection of what you set the focus of your eyes 
to suit, the clouds over your head, or the pebbles at the 
bottom, or your own face in the surface of the water.’ 

‘ Which is best to look at ? ’ I said, for the sake ol 
saying something. 


560 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


‘Not the clouds, for you cannot bring them down, 
nor the p rabbles, for you cannot get them up.’ 

‘Tliere is nothing then to be looked at but one’s own 
face?’ 

‘ Our own faces, seen suddenly, will sometimes tell us 
things concerning ourselves that we did not suspecfc 
belore,’ he answered. 

‘Did you ever see yours in a well, dear?’ said Liz, 

‘Yes.’ 

‘I suppose it didn’t tell you your fortune ?’ 

‘Why do you suppose so? You are quite oracular 
this evening.’ 

‘ W ell, I only meant that at present you have no 
fortune to tell. You and I, you know, Giles, never have 
any affairs of the heart, as people call them. Emily and 
-Valentine began early; but then they always 

‘To be sure,’ answered St. George, who was quite 
capable of enjoying this speech. ‘ There is nothing that 
I dislike more than those ridiculous reserves that obtain 
in some families. Why shouldn’t we all know all about 
one another ? ’ he continued audaciously appealing to me. 

‘ Why not, indeed ? ’ I answered laughing. ‘ I am so 
glad you are not a reserved family.’ 

Mrs. Henfrey, during this little conversation, sat per- 
fectly still, and did not even look up, or betray the 
slightest interest ; but when I went on, ‘ If I ever have 
anything to tell, I shall confide i, to sister,’ she said, 
‘Do, my dear,’ and gently smiled. 


OFF THE SEELL1G8. 




CHAPTER XXXL 

If you sweai by that that is not, you are not forsworn, no mon 
was this knight swearing by his honor, for he never had any.’ 

As You Like It, 

A t this moment the nurse came in and said to St. 
George that both the children were crying, and 
saying that he had promised to come up and see 
them before they W'ent to bed. Accordingly he ran up- 
stairs to them with an orange in one hand and an apple 
in the other. 

Their French nurse was gone, and they did not take 
kindly to her English substitute, but according to Mrs. 
Henfrey led St. George such a life that it was wonder- 
ful he could bear it. They had been very low in their 
little minds since Valentine went away; they had had 
bad coughs, and would not take a drop of medicine un- 
less he gave it them. He had won their hearts, and 
had paid for this by being obliged to carry them up- 
stairs on his back because they said they had chilblains ; 
but now that he was gone, they had returned to their 
allegiance to St. George. Sometimes nobody else 
might hear them say their prayers, and sometimes he 
was called out from his luncheon because they would 
not eat their pudding unless he ate a bit too. 

‘French children generally are spoiled,’ said Mrs. 
Henfrey, ‘ and these are no exceptions. I am sorry for 
it for Dorothea’s sake.’ 

‘ O they will not be so troublesome with her,’ said 
Liz ; ‘ and depend on it Giles would not suffer their lit- 
tle exactions either, if he did not like them: he and 
Valentine both are quite absurd about children.’ 

W e were still talking of these little creatures when 

24* jj 


562 


OF}^^ THE SKSLLfOS. 


Mr. Brandon came back and went up-stairs with us to 
the drawing-room. I took the Bradshaw with me to 
make up my mind by what train to expect Valentino 
to-morrow. 

By the one which stopped at Wigfield at nine in 
the morning I found that his sisters expected him to*' 
come, because in her note Mrs. Wilson had said, ‘On 
Tuesday as early as possible.’ 

Mr. Brandon said he thought he would be wiser if he 
did not travel in the night, for there was another train 
at six, which would bring him home to dinner. 

I made up my mind to expect him early. I was cer- 
tain that he would come, or he would have written ; so 
I spent the evening in tolerable comfort, and slept bet- 
ter than I had done since my arrival. 

Tuesday morning I looked out. The snow was very 
deep, but at six o’clock I had heard the whistle of the 
up train, and knew that the line was not blocked ; and 
I rose and dressed, and came down with a beating 
heart, but scarcely any apprehension. 

Mr. Brandon’s trap was sent for Valentine. Pear 
fellow ! I longed to see him. I was told by every one 
that the snow would make the train at least half an 
hour late, so I waited till half-past nine, and again the 
trap returned without him. 

I cannot describe the looks of wonder and alarm that 
passed between Liz and Mrs. Henfrey; but St. George 
still said that he had felt that to travel in the night 
ivould be imprudent ; and I observed as breakfast went 
on that he really was more at his ease, and this again 
influenced me to hope for the best. I was determined 
to hope and trust to the last and uttermost : once tc 
doubt Valentine was to give him up, and I clung to 
faith with all my power. 

We went to the morning-room as usual. Something, 
about eleven o’clock, induced Liz to say, ‘I shall just 
run up and ask St. George about that.’ Whereupon 
Mrs. Henfrey said she had better not, for Giles was so 
worried that morning. 

Why, 1 thought hs seemed easy enough about Val 


O^'F TEE SKELLIOS. 


563 


this morning,’ answered Liz, ^ and last night he said to 
me that he was sure Dorothea must know the Oubit far 
better than we did, and he felt that if he really had 
been worse than he had said we should have been told.’ 

Mrs. Henfrey went away; and Liz and I, left alone, 
talked the matter over till we worked ourselves up to 
such a state of anxiety that she declared she must go up 
to Giles and find out why he was worried. ‘ He always 
did think so badly of Valentine’s health,’ she said; and 
this frightened me, and I told her that he had intended 
going to Derby and I had prevented him. On this she 
blamed my folly ; it was exactly what she had longed 
to see him do. ‘ But I must go and question him for 
myself,’ she added; ‘come with me,’ and we both set 
forth to go to the top of the house to St. George’s 
peculiar domain, — a sort of study or library that he 
had of his own. 

We came to a door, and finding it locked, Liz 
tapped. We could hear a man’s foot pacing about 
within. St. George came to the door, but he only 
opened it an inch or two. ‘What do you want, you 
plague?’ he said, but not in the least ill-naturedly. 
‘ This is the third time you have been up this morning.’ 

‘ D. came up with me,’ said Liz ; ‘ we want to speak 
to you.’ 

On this he opened the door widely, and we stepped 
into a narrow room nearly forty feet long and with a 
pointed roof It was flooded with sunshine, and had 
four dormer windows looking over the open country, 
and showing a good way off the great north road and 
the railway. 

‘ Is it the evergreens ? ’ he said ; ‘ because if it is. Old 
Wilkins may cut down every bush in the garden if you 
like ; you always want a quantity of garnish.’ 

‘ How impatient you are, Giles,’ said Liz, but with un- 
usual gentleness ; ‘ no, it’s not the evergreens.’ And she 
detailed Mrs. Henfrey’s remark, and all our fears and 
fancies in consequence. 

‘You make Miss Graham quite nervous,’ he answered 
® she is not in the least so by nature.’ 


564 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘ Toll us once for all,’ said Liz, ‘ whether you think 
the Dubit is worse than they said.’ 

‘ I do not think so.’ 

‘ And you do not think it would have been better if 
I had let you go to Derby,’ I added; ‘you do not 
regret having stayed at home.’ 

‘No, I think you were right.’ 

‘ O very well,’ said Liz, as if now really satisfied ; ‘ k 
was silly of us, wasn’t it, Dorothea, to frighten ourselves 
B-D? Look, is not this a curious room?’ 

‘ It should have been put to rights if I had expected 
such a visitor,’ said St. George, glancing at my beautiful 
array, for I had dressed myself again in the Parisian 
robe, in the false hope of seeing Valentine. 

I looked about. There were many shelves of books, 
there were globes and queer-looking machines in this 
rooin; there was a turning-lathe in one corn^, and 
there were charming easy chairs, and a reading lamp, 
and on the walls some pictures ; but my heart, in spite 
of his assurances, was beating with apprehension, for 
the whole floor was carpeted with a red Brussels carpet, 
which was quite fresh, excej)t in one long narrow path 
from end to end, where the occupant was evidently in 
the habit of pacing up and down. He began to do this 
again with restless and somewhat rapid steps, and with 
hie fingers in his waistcoat pockets ; and as I noted his 
appearance, I could not feel content. His face, gen- 
erally devoid of ruddy tints, was now almost pale, and 
hi< eyes, rather wide open, seemed to be ti oubled with 
flashes of an often recurring surprise. 

‘Well, Dorothea, shall we come down again?’ says 
Liz. I hesitated, and looked appealingly at him ; on 
which he said to her, ‘Go down if you like, my dear; 
but perhaps it would amuse Miss Graham to stay and 
look at my pictures ; she never saw my room before.’ 

Liz ran ofi*, and still he paced up and down, and I 
dared not question him ; but as I moved to look at a 
portrait of a lady whose likeness to him was very ap- 
parent, he came to my side. ‘ That’s my mother,’ ho 
r.aid ; ‘ you see her face is full of prophecies, but none 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


665 


of them have come true. She is always promising me 
peace and sometimes joy. You were frightened when 
you came up ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ My own afiairs are alone what make me so wretched. 
I told you about a certain misfortune that had befallen 
me.’ 

‘Yes; I am so grieved about it.’ 

‘ So now you can be at rest. I assure you it was only 
about myself that I was so horridly worried this morn- 
ing. I am afraid I am losing the mastery over myself 
altogether. As for my temj)er — it’s all that ill-starred 
love.’ 

‘You talk of a man’s love as if it was an awful and 
terrible thing.’ 

‘ So it is sometimes. The first woman that I loved 
always made me feel that I was a fool. As for my last 
love, she has sometimes said to me very cruel things. 
She has the power so completely to make me take her 
view of what I am, that I often feel as if I must be a 
sneak. No, not exactly that — ’ 

‘ And yet you actually said to me that she was inex*- 
pressibly sweet.’ 

‘ I don’t think it could have been her doing ; it must 
have been my own self-consciousness,’ he replied. 

‘ I hate that woman,’ I answered deliberately ; and I 
felt at the moment almost as if it lightened, such flashes 
of anger seemed to come darting out of my eyes. 
‘Yes I do,’ I repeated, when he looked at me with 
amazement ; ‘ I know it’s very wrong, but I cannot help 
it, and I cannot feel any special desire to try.’ 

Thereupon when I found that surprise at this unex- 
pected outbreak of mine had so far dissipated his tragic 
feelings as actually to make him smile, I was obliged to 
indulge in the luxury of two or three tears, and when 1 
had said something apologetic, to which he made no 
answer, I moved forward to look at another picture ; on 
which he presently said, — 

‘ This is a curious room, is it not ? Mr. Mortimer had 
it done up for me when I was of age. Dear old mani 


568 


OFF TEE SKELL1G8. 


it’s extraordinary how fond he was of me. He wanted 
to keep me with him.’ 

‘ I do not see that it was extraordinary ; but let me 
look at Valentine’s mother again. What a dear face it 
is.’ Then as I went nearer, and a sunbeam stealing 
over the picture made it appear to smile on me, there 
was suddenly a strange, almost an awful thump at the 
door. For the moment it startled me, and when it was 
repeated St. George said, ‘It’s only Smokey; he is 
very frequent in his visits just now.’ He went to the 
door, and the great beast came slinking in. ‘ He knocks 
with his tail,’ said the master, partly addressing his vas- 
sal, and he sat down in a low chair and let the creature 
put his paws on the arm of it and look at him. 

‘ YouM much better keep your distance,’ said Giles, 
addressing him exactly as if he had been a man ; ‘ it 
only makes you more uneasy, you know. You shouldn’t 
try to investigate matters that you can’t understand.’ 

The dog, with his head laid along his master’s shoul- 
der, snuffled and whined a little, and tried to get St. 
George to rise ; and when he would not, coiled himself 
at his feet and looked up at him. 

‘ Surely,’ I exclaimed, ‘ he does not know you are out 
of spirits.’ 

‘ He feels that I can’t sleep at night, and that makes 
him restless and uneasy. But if you bark again and 
howl as you did last night you must be sent to the farm ; 
do you hear that, my dog ? ’ 

Smokey gave his master two or three little submissive 
yaps. 

‘No, he does not know anything,’ continued his 
master, ‘ but he feels something. The greater life some- 
how affects his lesser thought. I always respect his 
desire to investigate, but I am sure he is sagacious 
enough not to be satisfied now. Surely you must know 
of the common experience in families that their dogs 
howl distressfully when there is death or even great 
danger of it in their houses.’ 

‘Yes, I have frequently heard of that.’ 

‘ Then this dog (and some, indeed many others) goes 


OFF THE 8KELLIQS, 


567 


ft step beyond the common cur: he howls also when 
I am miserable. Smokey ! ’ 

Smokey sprang up with a ^sudden bound. 

‘ There’s a cat on the stable roof ! He thinks it his 
duty to bark at all strange cats, but he does them no 
damage. There now, I shall get rid of him for a while,’ 
he went on as the dog rushed out of the room, and 
dashed down-stairs. 

Then when I went back to look at the mother’s pict- 
ure I managed to say, ‘ I cannot help telling you that 
I think you are now Ihr more easy and confident than 
I am about Valentine. For after all it certainly is 
strange that he does not either come or write.’ 

‘The reason I feel easier is that I sent a telegram 
yesterday night to Derby. And the night before,’ he 
continued after a pause. 

‘ O, what were the answers and what induced you not 
to tell me before ? ’ 

‘ The first was, “ Have we received a true account of 
Valentine’s illness ? ” the answer was, “ Yes, he is up and 
much better.” ’ 

‘ Surely that is very reassuring ! And the second ? ’ 

‘ The answer to the second was, “ I am coming.” ’ 

‘ Yes, of course, dear fellow ! he is coming ; but what 
was the question ? ’ 

‘ The question will show that I was as you say sur- 
prised ; it was, “ Make me understand this ; ” but you 
had nothing to do with it — you never distrusted him 
for a moment, and I did only for a time.’ 

‘ Then he will come this evening ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ How kind you have been! You have taken care 
that in his case “ the course of true love ” shall for once 
“ run smooth.” ’ 

‘Have I?’ 

‘You know you have.’ 

‘ But I like to hear you say so.’ 

I do say so, and I say there is hardly anything I 
vould not do to set this trouble of yours right again. 

He paced up and down once more ; then as he reached 


568 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


tlie place where I stood he said, ‘No one knows oi 
this ? ’ 

‘ Of course not.’ 

‘ No one ever shall ? ’ 

‘No, not even afterwards.’ 

‘ W ell, it is a shame to keep you up here, when no doub* 
you have so much to do. Shall I take you down-stairs ? 

I felt that I was dismissed, and said I could easil} 
find my way down, he need not come with me ; where- 
upon he opened the door, and as I walked away I heard 
him lock it behind me. 

I did not tell the two sisters about these telegrams. 
One had clearly not been confided to me, because I had 
not supposed Valentine to be worse than Mrs. Wilson 
had said. The other disturbed me ; both question and 
answer, even though Valentine had so distinctly said ho 
was coming. 

That was a restless day. I longed for six o’clock 
with indescribable faintings of heart. Liz could settle to 
nothing. Mrs. Henfrey, who was having the whole of 
the family plate duly cleaned for the great occasion, 
sometimes brought in some precious old heirloom as 
shortly to be mine. ‘All the plate,’ she observed, 
‘belongs either to Giles or Valentine, and it will soon 
have to be divided ; but excepting a few spoons and 
forks, there will be no difficulty about it even when there 
is no crest, for I knew all our plate long before the late 
Mr. Brandon’s was mixed with it by Giles’s mother.’ She 
went to the window from time to time. ‘ It’s lucky 1 
ordered the calves’ feet on Saturday,’ she observed, ‘ and 
had the turkey boned.’ 

‘Don’t tease Dorothea,’ said Liz kindly, ‘she has a 
headache.’ 

‘ I like to hear it,’ was my reply, it seemed so completely 
to take for granted that the wedding breakfast would 
be eaten on the appointed day that it comforted me. 

1 was thankful when it was time to dress for dinner, 
and passed through the dining-room on purpose to see 
whether a chair and cover had been placed in token 
that Valentine was expected. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


569 


I derived comfort from seeing these preparations and 
from seeing the trap set forth again. Then I went up 
to my room to dress ; and well knowing that I should 
be told the instant that he came in, I sat there in brid^il 
white till after I had heard the whistle of the train and 
the returning wheels of the trap. 

No one came to me. I felt sick and trembled slightly, 
but had no inclination to shed tears. At length think- 
ing I heard whispering outside, I opened my door and 
saw Mrs. Henfrey, Liz, and Mr. Brandon standing near it. 
The latter advanced, and gravely offered his arm, say- 
ing with quiet steadiness of manner, ‘ Now, my dear, 
shall we go down to dinner ? ’ 

0 those words ‘ my dear,’ what a world of meaning 
there was in them to my trembling heart ! They seemed 
plainly to tell me that he acknowledged my claim to be 
treated as one of the family, but I felt that in uttering 
them he thought that the chance of my entering it was 
but small. 

1 went down with him in silence, and trembling to a 
degree that made it difficult to me to walk. Mrs. Hen- 
frey and Liz were perfectly silent during dinner, and 
hardly ate anything. Mr. Brandon and I, though we 
felt so much more keenly, contrived to eat and to speak 
a little, for the sake of appearances before the servants. 

W e went into the drawing-room as usual, and there, 
relieved from restraint, Liz cried quietly in a corner, 
and Mrs. Henfrey sighed incessantly. I was trembling 
with dread and excitement, but could not sit a moment 
unoccupied, and went on with some knitting, with fever- 
ish restlessness, till I heard at a distance sounds like 
faint music coming across the snow ; it was very sweet, 
a voice I thought, — and presently the opening of a door 
made it distinct enough for me to recognize it. Mi. 
Brandon was singing to the children. 

I laid down my work and wandered away towards 
the sound, as to something that might occupy my mind 
a little, and distract it from itself. 

The nursery door was ajar. I entered, saw the elder 
child just finishing her supper, and the little one sitting 


570 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS^ 


on St. George’s knee, with shoes and socks off, and th« 
moment I entered she made a crying face. She had 
been promised that Monsieur Valentine would come 
^nd see her, and he did not come ; he was very naughty 
Monsieur Valentine, and she should tell him so. 

Valentine’s little dog lay on the rug, and now and 
then made a yapping noise in his sleep. ‘ He’s dream- 
ing,’ said Frances, and St. George said it was time they 
were dreaming too. ‘But I haven’t got anything to 
dream about,’ said Naniiette in a melancholy tone, ‘and 
my foots are so cold.’ She had been pressing her pretty 
little fat feet against the nursery guard, but perhaps ho 
saw that I wanted him, for he left the nursery with me 
and I asked him to come to the drawing-room and sing, 
and let me play for him. I wanted something to do. 

The intense anxiety that was now beginning to over- 
whelm me was shared, I was certain, by him and by 
him only ; neither of his sisters had admitted a single 
thought other than that Valentine was ill. 

I felt that he was very desirous that night to comfort 
and quiet my mind, and as he went to the drawing- 
room again he reminded me of the great depth of the 
snow which made traffic troublesome, and perhaps in some 
places impossible ; and then he made the welcome sug- 
gestion that we might have a telegraphic message. 

I sat down to the piano, but soon found that my 
hands were trembling too much to make playing possi- 
ble. Then I went to the nursery again, and saw the 
children put to bed, and watched them in their little 
beds till they fell asleep. After that I sat as patiently 
as I could in the drawing-room till our usual bed-time, 
and then Mrs. Henfrey and Liz, wearied both by their 
own anxiety and my restlessness, rose to retire, and so 
did I. 

But I could not sleep of course, and did not mean to 
undress. I knew that about midnight there was a par- 
liamentary train, which stopped at G , a place about 

eight miles off, and I resolved to sit up and wait till all 
hopes of Valentine’s coming by it were over. 

I think about an hour may have passed, when, find 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


671 


mg that my watch had stopped, I stole down again to 
the drawing-room to look at the clock there, and to my 
surprise found the lamps alight, and St. George with 
his feet on the fender reading. 

At sight of me he betrayed not the least surprise, 
but spoke cheerfully and even smiled. 

‘ You wished to sit up for the last train no doubt ; do 
you know I feel a strong conviction that he will come 
by it, and I have sent to G to meet it ? ’ 

‘O thank you.’ 

He again spoke of the deep fall of snow ; then he 
gave me a book which he said was interesting, and began 
to pace slowly up and down the room ; but observing 
that I was quite unable to- read, he shortly came up to 
me, took the book out of my hand, and leaning one 
elbow on the mantelpiece, began to read aloud out of 
the bulgy Greek Testament that I remembered his pos- 
sessing on board the ‘ Curlew.’ He read in a quiet 
steady voice, which, thougli very low and soft, was free 
from any e^^pression of emotion. It quieted my over- 
wrought nerves, with the only, the eternal history and 
hope, that then I was in a state to listen to. 

He closed it at last. ‘You are very patient,’ he said 
gently ; ‘ come to the window.’ His senses had been 
quicker than mine, for when he drew aside the curtains 
I could hear the oncoming of the distant train, which 

had already stopped at G and was rapidly speeding 

towards us. 

The moon was nearly at the full, the ground was very 
deep in snow, and the black trees looked awful in the 
stillness. We saw the two red glaring eyes of the 
engine as it sped past, and the black carriages behind. 
Oh, how earnestly I prayed then that I might soon see 
the man I was waiting for ; but I have lived to thank 
God that all my prayers have not been answered. 

Looking out, not speaking a word, good or bad, my 
heart beating and my hands trembling, I remained a 
lOng time, till, conscious of a very faint sound some way 
off, I turned, and saw Mr. Brandon, with his head thrown 
back and his nostrils dilated, standing with one hand 


572 


OFF THE SKELLIOS, 


raised gazing towards the open drawing-room door and 
listening. 

There was a slight stir outside, and a faint howling 
from one of the dogs ; then a distant door was softly 
opened, and footsteps passed along the darkened hall. 

My heart heat wildly, I hated its audible noise because 
for all my listening it confused the sounds below. There 
was a foot on the stairs, a slow heavy foot, and some- 
thing had seemed now and then to strike against the 
banisters. At last one man only entered the room, — 
the groom, — and he had a deal box in his hands. 

Neither of us spoke. 

‘ If you please, sir,’ began the man in a tone of the 
humblest apology, ‘Mr. Mortimer — sir — he wasn’t 
there, but I brought this box on that they took up into 
the North by mistake ; it came down by the first train 
this morning.’ 

My wedding cake come back again ! 

‘You can set it down,’ said Mr. Brandon ; and when 
the man had slunk out of the room, I looked at him and 
he looked at me. 

What deadly fright and dread he saw in my face I 
cannot tell, nor what pity troubled him for the forlorn 
creature standing mute before him, but his face changed 
and paled till even his lips were white, and his large 
eyes became dilated, and his whole frame shivered as if 
some frost-bitten blast was blowing upon him. 

I moved a little nearer, and said in a whisper, for my 
voice was gone, ‘ Do you think he is dead ? ’ I looked 
at him eagerly, hungrily, for an answer, and he turned 
away his lace from me, and muttered hoarsely, ‘ No.’ 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


67a 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

* The worst is not, 

So long as we can say, This is the worst * 

King Lear. 

I REMEMBER putting my hands to my eyes, and 
feeling a longing desire to shed tears ; but I had no 
, tears to shed, and was very sick and cold. 

I went back to the fire, which was burning dim, and 
iat cowering over it as if it could supply the warmth 
ihat had died out of me. Mr. Brandon did not speak 
or take any notice of me ; he was writing a letter in 
urgent haste, and when he had directed it, he dashed 
down the pen, came quickly to a sofa near the fire, and 
drew from under it a riding-whip, scarf, and overcoat. 

All this was very quickly done, and his resolute face, 
heightened color, and flashing eyes helped me to the 
meaning of it. He had prepared beforehand for a 
journey in case this train did not bring back Valentine ; 
now he was resolved to fetch him back whether he 
would or not. 

‘You will now go to bed, I hope,’ he said to me. 

I asked if he was going to Derby. 

‘Yes,’ he answered resolutely; ‘I must, there is not 
a moment to be lost,’ — he held out his hand and went 
on saying, ‘ and black as things look I hope you will 
try not to judge Valentine till you hear something 
from me.’ 

I summoned what force I had to say, ‘Your going 
will not be for my good, unless you will first hear what 
I wish to say about it.’ 

He looked as if impatience almost mastered him, but 
he sat down, and I could see that down to his very fiii^ 


574 


OFF THE SKELLM8. 


ger ends his nerves were thrilling with the longing 
desire to be off. 

‘ I know you are a just man — ’ 

He looked amazed at this beginning. 

‘ So I hope you will be just to me.’ 

‘ To you ? ’ he repeated faintly. 

‘Yes, to me. I have no friends: my brother womd 
take no notice, poor fellow, if the wedding day should 
pass over, and my name remain ?s it is; my father is so 
far away.’ 

‘I don’t know what this means; say something 
more.’ 

‘ I say, then, that I know you are a loving brother ; 
but I believe that above his chance of happiness, you 
desire that Valentine should yield to duty and honor.’ 

‘You do me no more than justice.’ 

‘You are not going to Derby because you think he is 
dying, for others would have informed us of that.’ 

No answer. 

‘Nor ill, for then he would have written himself.’ 

Still no answer. 

‘ But you are going because you believe that his heart 
fails him at the last moment, and he dare not come 
home because he will not marry me. I know what you 
suffer in this prospect, for I am your invited guest, 
come here on purpose, for your sister’s convenience, to 
be married to your brother, you yourself giving me 
away. Do not think that I make light of that. If I 
were a man I should feel it keenly. But, Mr. Brandon, 
(I said I knew you were just) I appeal to you to be 
kind, and I trust to your sense of duty and your honor 
not to sacrifice me. Valentine has been cruel already 
to leave me so long in anxiety ; but that would be noth- 
ing to your cruelty if you went to him and represented 
all that you have done for him and all that he owes to 
you, and the disgrace that would accrue to him, and the 
pain to your pride and your affection if he should act 
unworthily, and if between entreaties and commands 
you got him to return with you and marry me against 
his will.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


575 


‘ If he wants such persuasion,’ muttered Giles between 
his clenched teeth, ‘he is a villain whom but for hi? 
father’s sake I could disown. He must come, — he will^ 
he shall I’ 

♦Not at your bidding.’ 

‘Yes, at my bidding. He must be infatuated now, 
but once married to you, even at my instance, he would 
bless me ever after.’ 

‘ I say again, do not be cruel to me, do not sacrifice 
me to him. Forget for awhile how much you care for 
Valentine, and consider my happiness as if I were as dear 
to you as he is.’ 

He seemed to feel this appeal in every fibre of his 
frame ; he set his lips, and the color forsook his face, 
but it retained its resolute expression, and he could not 
look me in the face, but fixed his eyes on the wall above 
my head. 

‘Would it be sacrificing you,’ he said, with a falter- 
ing in his voice that in a woman would have been the 
prelude to tears, — ‘ would it be sacrificing you to 
marry you to the man whom you love ? ’ 

I could not answer. The man whom you love. Why 
did I love and care for him ? only as the result of his 
love for me ; but I could not look his brother in the 
face and tell him so. It would have been too crueL 
After all, his absence was unaccounted for. While we 
were discussing his possible falsity, he might be dying 
in some wayside inn, or buried deep in a snow-drift, his 
last thoughts having been of me. Thinking of this, — • 
and it was well I did, — a sudden passion of tears came 
to my relief, and I covered my face with my hands, and 
repented of what I had said, and bemoaned my own 
unkindness from the bottom of. my heart. I believe I 
reproached Giles for having first suggested to me a 
doubt as to Valentine’s honor. I repudiated any such 
doubt for myself, said I had altered my mind, and im- 
plored him if he found Valentine living not to tell him 
that I had ever entertained one. 

Becoming more calm, — and he left me to recover my- 
self without a word of comfort from him, — I looked ud. 


5?t) 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


He was standing still as a statue, just as I had seen 
him before, not directing his eyes towards me, but rais- 
ing them above my head. 

Often, in after years, when I sat between him and. 
Valentine, I saw again the expression that then met my 
eyes for the first time. 

It was the reflection of some inward thought which 
he was brooding over: it must have been a good 
thought, for it irradiated his face. It made me feel a 
Hudden trust in him ; and as one looks at a picture of 
a saint holding heavenly communion, or an angel with 
a brow of more than mortal tenderness and calm, I 
looked at him till, conscious of my^ silence, he brought 
down his eyes to meet mine, and instantly the opening 
in the clouds that had shown such a glimpse of bright- 
ness was closed, and the face resumed its usual expres- 
sion of keen intelligence and penetration. 

The drawing-room clock struck two, and he started 
forward and snatched up his whip. It seemed as if he 
would leave the room without speaking to me ; but he 
did not. He gave himself time to tell me shortly and 
quickly that now he must go ; that whatever happened 
I should hear by telegraph everything that he could tell 
me; and then, as if reluctantly, he told me not to be 
afraid, for he should remember my appeal. 

So saying, and requesting that I would now go to 
bed and take some rest, he left the room and went 
quickly down-stairs. I heard him unlock and open the 
back door, and then I heard the swing of the stable 
door on its hinges. I went to my room, and from 
thence I could see the carriage road. I looked out and 
saw him leading his horse by a short cut through the 
deep snow in the field. That done, he mounted him, 
and my heart beat a little more easily ; for now what- 
ever had happened to Valentine, he would soon have 
help and I should soon have tidings. I lay down, and 
was so weary that I slept, but only to lose myself in 
miserable dreams. The horse was stumbling, he had 
got into a hole and Giles could not drag him out, the 
snow was too deep ; there was no train, it had whisked 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


577 


by just before he reached the station. I heaid the 
whistle of it in my dreams, and awoke to hear it in 
r(;ality. It was eight o’clock, and the pretty little maid 
was standing by my bed with a telegraphic letter in her 
hand. With what sensations I opened it I need not 
attempt to describe. It was dated fi’om a station a few 
miles beyond Derby. ‘One quarter past seven, a.m. 
Valentine left this place two hours ago. You shall 
hear again.’ That was all, — not a word of comfort ; 
there was none evidently to be given ; nothing about 
his health ; and he could not have left on his way home, 
or why was I to hear again ? 

Liz soon came to look at the letter, and took it away 
to Mrs. Henfrey. Neither of them attempted to under- 
stand it, and I tried very hard not to judge poor Valen- 
tine before the time. 

That was a dreary day — the snow fell incessantly, 
and no one came to the house. Mrs. Henfrey was very 
mnch annoyed about some evergreens that she wanted 
for decorating the house; she was sure they would 
never look well if they were cut with the snow upon 
them. 

I was very restless, but I could retire sometime^ to 
my room, and kneel, and, as well as the tumult of my 
mind would permit, I could pray. I could also weep 
now and then a little that day ; but in the evening 
there came another telegram, which gave me a shock 
that drove away my tears for a long, long time, and 
greatly increased my suffering : — ‘ London, six o’clock, 
Euston Hotel. If you have received any letter or mes- 
sage let me know. He is in London, but I do not 
know where.’ 

Wretched uncertainty ! I could not sleep that 
night, but I came down the next morning as iisuaL It 
still snowed. I could not bear to sit still, but wan- 
dered from story to story, and from room to room. 
There were no telegraphic messages now either to 
frighten or to cheer me ; but every now and then there 
were Mrs. Henfrey’s curious remarks to listen to. She 
was not afraid for Valentine, it seemed, and she chose to 
25 kk 


578 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


consider that it must be the snow that kept him away. 
The rails were blocked up certainly, but that did not 
account for the absence of telegraphic letters ; neither 
Liz nor I, however, prevented her from taking any view 
she pleased, and she proceeded to have the jellies 
cleared, the raised pies made, and the game roasted, 
with a view to the wedding breakfast that nobody but 
herself expected to see on the table. 

Poor Liz cried a good deal that day : I never shed 
a tear. I was very cold, and everything seemed to 
have a dimness spread over it; but I remember 
sometimes deriving a slight degree of relief from 
going into the nursery and hearing the artless prattle 
of the children. 

And now Friday came, the eve of my wedding day 
Liz was unwell from apprehension, and did not appear. 
I came down feeling faint and so weak that I could not 
descend the stairs without holding by the banisters. 
Colder and colder I had grown as time went on ; there 
was a w’eary, wearing pain at the top of my head as if 
the weight of the world was pressing on it ; but I could 
not be alone. I followed Mrs. Henfi’ey about, and sat 
in each room that she went into. 

Strange to say, her only comfort now that things 
began to look so bad, was in pertinaciously continuing 
her preparations, as if they could help to avert the com- 
ing blow. She had wheelbarrows-full of evergreens cut 
and laid in heaps on the dining-room floor; she even 
had some of the principal dishes carried in, that she 
might decide how they were to stand. And at all this 
I sat and looked on. 

I sat on the dining-room sofa, my mind so dimmed 
by long tension that nothing affected me that passed 
around. I had a desperate necessity upon me to be 
occupied ; and as my arms failed me through fatigue, I 
propped the one which held my needle on the cushion 
and drew it out with an effort, and a determination to 
continue the effort, which I can feel when I think of it, 
even to this day. 

The cook and another servant, as they carried the 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


579 


dishes and changed them at Mrs. Henfrey’s orders, cast 
pitying glances at me. I saw it, but I could only move 
a little way off that they might observe me less, and 1 
went and sat in an arm-chair which was opposite to the 
door that led into the hall. Through the hall windows 
I could now see the clear expanse of snow that lay over 
everything. My powei*s of working had given way. I 
laid my work on my lap, and resting my arms on the 
arms of the chair, looked out with listless apathy. 

All my impressions were faint now, my ideas dim, 
my thoughts confused. I was not roused when I heard 
a servant utter the word ‘ wheels,’ and instead of look- 
ing out I looked at her. 

An instant after, and there was a confused noise of 
footsteps, and then some one shaking and violently 
knocking at the side door of the room. 

‘ Good lack,’ cried the cook running to open it, ‘ I 
locked it because of the jelly glasses being on the 
floor.’ 

Mrs. Henfrey turned half bewildered by the noise, 
and the door being now opened Mr. Brandon burst in, 
stumbling in his vehement haste among the glasses and 
then trampling and plunging through a mass of ever- 
greens. 

Brought thus for a moment to a stand, I could see the 
vehement flashing of his eyes and hear his hurrierl 
breathing, as Mrs. Henfrey and Liz, who now rushed in, 
seized him by either arm, crying, ‘How’s Valentino, 
Giles ? O Giles, where’s Valentine ?’ 

He muttered some answer that was inaudible to me, 
and still trampling through the holly, his eyes fell on 
the table. He saw instantly the meaning of these prepa- 
rations, and while both his sisters fell back, he stood a 
moment aghast and shocked, and then in a low thrilling 
tone he said, ‘ O my God ! ’ 

It was more like a prayer than an exclamation. ‘ Take 
that away ! ’ he cried to the cook ; ‘ take it out ; ’ and 
with an awestruck face she snatched off the epergnc, 
and the old footman in tears followed with my cake. 
Liz, w’th her usual terror at being present when any- 


580 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS: 


thing was the matter, filled her arms with holly and 
rushed out of the room crying, ‘ O, he is dead! he is 
dead ! ’ And then before any one could get after her to 
prevent it, she fell down heavily on the floor ; and as I 
sat quiet in my place I heard Giles and Mrs. Henfrey 
lift her up. I hoped she was not hurt, but in a minute 
or two I noticed that Giles had come back and shut the 
door, that he was coming toward me, and then that he 
was standing before me ; but I sat as still as if the scene 
that had passed before my eyes was no concern of mine. 
I could not feel, I could not stir, I only perceived that 
he was holding a letter for me to take, and that when 
I did not put out my hand for it he laid it on my 
knee. 

I saw the handwriting, that it was Valentine’s, and 
I said with quiet apathy, ‘ He is not dead.’ Then I 
lifted up my eyes and saw, but did not hear him answer, 

‘No.’ 

Still my senses were so dimmed by long suspense and 
alarm, that I sat without moving from my apathetic 
attitude till he took up the letter, and breaking open 
the envelope again offered it for my perusal. 

But no : Valentine was not come, I had sense enough 
to perceive that, and also that he was not ill, for he had 
written ; and, strange as it may seem, T had no desire 
to read that letter. Few women can have received one 
in all respects its parallel, and to none could it have 
been offered with a greater agony of shame and pity 
than he showed who offered it to me. 

‘ Do you know me ? Do you know who I am ? ’ I 
remember hearing him say. 1 managed to answer 
‘Yes,’ and he gently touched my forehead with his 
hand, and sighed. ‘I have brought you a letter,’ he 
repeated ; ‘ don’t you mean to read it ? ’ 

Though I was so dull, and so unable ts' feel keenly, I 
was aware he was speaking to me as if he was anxious 
to rouse rather than soothe me, and I wished to rouse 
myself, but my arms lay like lead upon the arras of the 
chair, and my thoughts wandered. 

‘You may read it to me,’ 1 said. 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 581 

He looked fixedly at me as if he did not hear, and I 
repeated what I had said. 

I did not know what a cruel task I was imposing till 
after glancing at the now open letter he trembled, and 
di*opt it from his hand, with a gesture of almost loath- 
ing. I felt a feeble kind of surprise then, and when he 
turned away I saw the first few words as it fluttered to 
his feet, ‘ My dear generous D ’ 

But he did not leave me long waiting for the remain- 
der. He turned back with a resolute sort of courage, 
and forced himself tp read it to me from beginning to 
end. It was a strange weak confession, half apology, 
half self-justification. The drift of it was that I had 
been right from the first, for now he knew what love 
was, and he had never loved me. He had not meant 
to be cruel and inconsiderate ; he had but lately dis- 
covered that his affections had been stolen from him by 
one who was the loveliest of her sex. He should always 
be very fond of me as the drearest of sisters, but, oh, he 
ould not come back to me'J^'^t would be too tenible. 
W ould I be generous, would I, could I forgive him, and 
be good to him and set him free ? 

Poor Valentine ! 

Some strange changes passed over St. George’s face 
as he read, and added meaning to the flush of shame 
that dyed his features, and to the dilated nostril and 
heaving chest. There was a resolute efibrt to keep his 
voice steady while he read, and Valentine’s weak words 
were flung to me in broken but stormy tones of grie^ 
and passion, and pity that his feebler nature never would 
have reached, but fainter and less firm they sounded 
wdth every fresh sentence, till the last unworthy entrea- 
ties died away in a muttered sigh, and the task once 
performed there was no more striving for self-mastery. 
Subdued for once and stung to the quick, wounded both 
in his pride and his afiection, he dropped the letter 
again on my knee, and I saw him, with an astonishment 
that almost roused me from my apathy, retreat to the 
sofa, lay his face among the cushions, and yield himself 
to an agony of tears 


582 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


He wept with such passion, such' a choking misery of 
Bobs, that the deadly calm which was freezing me to 
death gave way a little. I perceived that some of this 
grief was for me, and there was some slight comfort and 
healing in the thought. There was at least one human 
being in the wide world who could be touched for my 
trouble. But I could not weep yet: I could not cry 
for my lost lover — lost to the past now as well as to 
the future. No, and I could not cry for my lost home 
and changed prospects. I could only look on at this 
man who for the moment had forgotten himself to do it 
for me, and feel a yearning desire to change places with 
him, and lay down my head as he had done. 

And yet, strange to say, I had a great dread at heart 
lest some one who might be listening outside should 
hear this. I forgot that it must all be made public 
the next day. With an effort I rose from my chair, 
fetched a glass of water from the side-board, and brought 
it to him, whispering, ‘ Hush, hush.’ He had already 
sat up ; but a passion ol tears is such an unusual expe- 
rience to some men that they don’t know what to do 
with it, and when I spoke it overcame him again, and 
clenching his hands in the cushions he sunk his face into 
them, and cried out, bemoaning himself like a woman. 
‘ What had he ever done that such a message should be 
sent by him. He knew it would break my heart ; he 
could not and he would not bear it ! ’ 

‘ Hush,’ I said to him again ; ‘ you must be quiet, and 
we want time to think what can be done.’ 

Thereupon he took the water with a sigh of utter 
exhaustion and drank it, and gave me back the glass. 
As he did so he looked in my face with a world of pity 
and ruth, but my dimmed eyes had lost the art of weep- 
ing. Neither his compassion nor his example could 
bring it back. 

He rose presently, and wheeled an eas) chair near to 
the fire, and clearing away the evergreens with his feet, 
put me in it, propping me with cushions and commis(*rat- 
ing me. I could not have endured this from any one 
else ; but he was a fellow-suiferer. Moreover he had 


OFF TEE 8KELL108. 


588 


been right from the first ; and I did think and I did feel, 
even at that moment, that if I had only let him go to 
Derby when he wdshed, Valentine vrould certainly have 
returned with him. Indeed I said so to him; and I 
remember telling him not to be surprised at my be- 
navior; for I knew it was strange that I could feel no 
natural emotion, that I could neither tremble nor sigh. 

There was something piteous, no doubt, and hopeless 
in that hour — it was the first real turning aside from 
the important point to which my life had been tending, 
it was the fiinging away of allegiance to a trusted friend. 

‘ Have you no question at all to ask me ? ’ said Mr. 
Brandon, with a bitter sigh. 

I looked in his face, and the gloom of his brow almost 
frightened me. It brought to my mind a sudden alarm 
as to what might have passed between him and Valen- 
tine, and my locked lips opened to question him: — 
‘ Where had he been ? ’ 

‘All over London, — miserable from dread of what 
in his desperation Valentine might have done. All the 
mischief was done at Derby. Oh, you have much to 
forgive — not only to him !’ 

‘ And where did you find him at last ? ’ 

‘ They found out at Derby, and telegraphed to me. 
He was at an hotel.’ 

‘You were not angry with nim, poor fellow.’ 

‘O, child, do not look at me so! Yes, I was angry.* 

‘ You did not strike him ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘ What did he say ? * 

‘ Nothing.’ 

‘ What did you say ? 

‘ I don’t know, — I don’t exactly know ; but he an- 
swered that if I required it he would make the sacrifice. 

‘ He was always of a yielding nature.’ 

‘ Don’t — don’t speak so tamely — don’t excuse him ] 
It pierces my heart to hear you.’ 

‘I must excuse him; he would have done worse to 
oome. I do excuse him for not coming, and I thank 
you for not bringing him.’ 


584 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


‘ I could have brought him, but you had tied my 
hands. I could have made him do his duty, and he 
would have blessed me for it afterwards.’ 

‘You have done your duty by me instead, and did 
not sacrifice me.’ 

He dropped his face into his hand and sighed, repeat- 
ing what he had said before, — ‘Would it, then, have 
been sacrificing you to marry you to the man whom 
you love ? ’ 

‘ Yes, for the root and ground of my afiection for him 
was the belief, which was tardy in coming to me, that 
he loved me, and that by devoting myself to him I 
could make him happy. He tried long to persuade me 
of his afiection ; I thought his pertinacity was a proof 
of it ; and so because I thought he loved me, I learnt to 
devote myself to him. I meant to spend my life in 
helping him, to reserve my best afiection for him, and 
all my allegiance. If he really did care for me, he 
deserved it ; for who else did — even of those on whom 
I had some claim ? I would not be perverse, then, and 
ungrateful. If he did love me, I would love him in 
return.’ 

As I spoke slowly and with long pauses and weari- 
ness and difficulty, he lifted his face from his hands and 
half turned towards me, but seemed to be arrested by 
amazement, and raising his eyes above my head, as he 
had done once before, he lost himself in such a fit of 
thinking that he appeared to be almost forgetting to 
breathe. 

Perhaps he did not believe me ; perhaps he felt the 
ground giving way under his feet, — one chief cause for 
anger against Valentine fading away, one chief cause 
for pitying me cleared from his mind ; and like a per- 
son keenly searching in the depths of his own memory 
for something that he desires to bring up to the light, 
and that perplexes and torments him with doubts when 
he has found it, he sat motionless as a stone, knitting 
his brow, and I, weak and weary, looked calmly on, not 
able to feel much, but deriving a sort of feeble content* 
ment from contemplating a person who could. 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


585 


At last, with a mighty sigh, he brought dowu his 
eyes to meet mine, and looked at me as if he would 
have penetrated to my very soul. 

‘ Is it so hard to believe me ? ’ I asked. 

‘I find it hard,’ he answered gravely, ‘to reconcile 
what you say with — with some things that have taken 
place.’ 

‘What things?’ 

‘What did I warn you of in the wood? What sig- 
nificance could there be in my words to bring such 
cruel pain to you if you did not love Valentine then? 
You wished to extort a promise from me that I would 
never allude to it again. You cannot think I have for- 
gotten that, and how you hung your head and drooped 
when I was hard enough to tell you that your boy 
lover had a careless heart and a faint memory. Love 
him ! Why, he had confided to me that very morning 
that he believed you loved him; you declined to en- 
gage yourself to him, but he was sure you loved him. 
And when I turned upon him and said, “What then?” 
what response did I get? Boy that he was, he faltered 
and blushed, and owned that he liked you uncommonly 
— was so proud, so pleased with you and your love. 
You have never been able to feel friendly towards me 
since that dark day.’ 

‘And now,’ he went on, after another pause, ‘when 
something worse than I ever dreaded has come to pass, 
something worse than careless and cold has been done, 
you can sit here white and wan, like the shadow only 
of that passionate creature who resented with such 
heartsick tears the first hint of this wrong. And unless 
I am mistaken, — which I think I must be, — you are 
actually telling me, — you intend me to understand, — 
that you did not cherish him then in your heart (hand- 
some, joyous, engaging young fellow that he was), 
but that your afifection for him rose afterwards, and was 
due to his long persuasions.’ 

Sometimes when a communication of grave import 
has been made, the mind is so full that nothing fresh 
can startle it. 

25 ^ 


586 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


So it was with me then. I perceived my long^ 
cherished mistake, and St. George had warned me 
about Valentine after all. What did it signify now? 
I thought it over. He was such a mere boy at tliat 
time, I said to myself: how could St. George take such 
a thing into his head ? He was a mere boy ! Then J 
recun-ed to my first thought on the subject. What did 
it signify now ? 

Some slight movement that he made recalled me to 
myself, and looking up I saw that he was expecting 
an answer from me, and looking at me with keen at- 
tention. 

‘ He was a mere boy,’ I said at last. And I consid- 
ered again. ‘ And so he thought I loved him. Strange ! ’ 

‘ Strange,’ repeated St. George ; ‘ why, his father 
thought so, his sister thought so. And as to his per- 
suasions — ’ 

‘Yes,’ I said wearily; ‘he was very open. Surely 
you knew of them.’ 

‘Knew of them!’ he repeated bitterly: ‘O yes, I 
knew of them ; but I believed that your long hesitation 
was owing to my having reminded you of his extreme 
youth and volatile character. I thought afterwards, 
poor fellow, that I had done him a great wrong, and 
you too. I thought I had spoilt your best chance of 
happiness, and his best chance of a happy and noble 
and virtuous youth.’ 

‘ Did you ? ’ I answered, for I was sorry to hear him 
speak with such anguish. ‘ W ell, never mind now, it 
makes no diflference.’ 

‘ I set myself to atone for it,’ he went on. ‘ I never 
rested till I had made an early marriage possible for 
him. — At least you loved him afterwards ? ^ 

He turned upon me almost vehemently to ask this 
question, and I answered, after thinking again : ‘ I 
cared for him very much, he was so kind ; and I wanted 
some one to whom I could devote mvself. I loved him 
almost better even than Tom at last.’ 

‘ Is that all ? ’ he exclaimed, springing up ; ‘ almost 
better than Tom! O then, the mischief is not quite 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


587 


irreparable; the wrong is not so intolerable as J 
thought.’ 

I cannot describe what I felt when he said this. His 
shame for his brother, and his intense sympathy with 
me, had been more necessary in this great trouble than 
I was aware. Now this sustaining sympathy was 
withdrawing, and all the courage I had left went 
after it. 

Happily for me, the pang of that moment brought 
back to me the power to weep, and I could lay down 
my head at last and cry for all I had lost — fcr my 
home under the New Zealand hills, and my cabin in the 
“ Curlew ” 


OFF TEE SKELLiaa. 


fi88 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

* I wad gie a’ my gowd, my baim, 

Sae wad I a’ my fee, 

For ae blast o’ the westlin wind 
To blaw the reek frae thee.’ 

I T takes a great deal to make some people ill. 1 
suppose so at least, for the next morning after lying 
awake nearly all night I saw the daylight come in, 
and I was not ill. 

I had wished to be left alone, and had asked to have 
my window curtains undrawn that I might look out as 
I lay in bed ; for, as is so often the case in illness or 
trouble, I did not like to look at things near at hand. 

I did not think very intently about my changed pros- 
pects ; all sorts of irrelevant matters pushed themselves 
into the foreground, and my only intervals of calm 
were when I could watch the slow movements of the 
clouds over the sky and the quiet southing of the stars. 
I heard steps about the house all night, openings of 
outer doors, wheels, and movements of furniture. The 
place only became quiet about dawn ; but this made no 
difference to me. I did not want to sleep, and yet I 
felt the profound quiet during which light came in rest- 
ing and sustaining me. 

At last there were noises again ; the usual sounds of 
unclosing shutters and knocking at doors, then I began 
to notice how unchanged everything else was in spite 
of the change in me. What a commonplace experience, 
and yet we are all surprised by it in our turn, and with 
it comes the first power to understand how (greatly as 
some of us may be loved) we shall make no abiding 
change even in any one human face by our going away. 


OFF THE SKELLI03. 


589 


The snow lay on the frozen trees, glittering and pure 
in the morning sunshine, and my pulse was beating as 
usual, and there was the little church tower. This was 
the wedding day, and the bridegroom’s letter was under 
the pillow. 

‘ I am glad he is not dead,’ I whispered to myself, and 
all my sensations were dull, and the words in which my 
thoughts shaped themselves were few and moderate. 
We can spend a great deal of vivid emotion on unim- 
portant matters when the senses are keen and fresh; 
but let them be exhausted with watching, or waiting, or 
fear, and how patient and tame we are about the mopt 
remarkable and heart-sickening things. 

Mrs. Henfrey’s little maid came and helped me to 
dress ; she trembled more than I did, and could not 
speak to me at all. Then Mrs. Henfrey came herself^ 
and brought me down to breakfast. I saw that every- 
thing had been restored to its usual state. The ever- 
greens and the plants were gone, — the tables were set 
as they generally stood. 

I was so quiet that no one could offer any sympathy. 
I think they were thankful to find that I could behave 
almost as usual, and I dare say they little supposed that 
my commonplace cogitations were as much occu[)ied 
with wonder as to what Mrs. Henfrey would do with 
the great wedding breakfast for eighty guests, as with 
the letter that I had to send to Valentine, and what I 
should say in it. 

Some of the wedding guests were there in the house, 
though I did not know it till I heard the sound of 
wheels, and was told in answer to a question, that the 
Augustus Mortimers and the John Mortimers were 
about to drive home ; but the confusion of the previous 
evening I never heard more about till long afterwards ; 
nor of the rage of ‘Uncle Augustus,’ the head of the 
family, and how John Mortimer and Mr. Brandon sent 
\n all directions to stop the wedding guests ; how angry 
they got with the wedding presents which kept coming 
in by the dozen, how Dick a Court had to be sent to 
(the clergyman who was to perform the ceremony), 


590 


OFF TEE SKELL108 


and the best man, who was no other than Valentine^s 
old rival, Prentice, had to be met at the station and 
desired to keep his distance. 

All these things I knew nothing about. They had 
done everything they could to prevent mortifications 
to me, — more indeed than was necessary; for as the 
gi’eat fact had to be borne, the little incidents grouped 
about it got swallowed up in the more important 
shadow. 

One strange thing, however, happened. In spite of 
all their care, the old footman came to my side at break- 
fast time with a waiter in his hand ; but just as he said 
‘With Miss Braithwaite’s love, ma’am,’ and before I 
had turned, Mr. Brandon snatched whatever lay on the 
tray and flung it under the table. The man retired un- 
der a battery of looks from the family, but the present 
still came to me, falling at my feet. I felt that it was 
something delicate and soft, and touched it several 
times with my foot as it lay there. At last I was im- 
pelled to stoop and draw it out. It was a bride’s 
bouquet made of white camellias and tied with satin 
ribbon. Miss Braithwaite, in the deep snow, could not 
know anything of my misfoitune; indeed, no one did 
who had not been told the previous night. 

There was fish of some kind on the table I think, for 
finger-glasses stood about. I began to untie the 
flowers, and put them into my glass, and as I did it 
slowly and wearily I observed Mrs. Henfrey’s astonish- 
ment, and said to her, ‘ I do not see why these must 
fade and die because I am not to be happy.’ Where- 
u])on both she and Liz gave way to tears and sobs, and 
I looked at them and longed in vain to follow their 
example. 

I recollect little of that morning. About eleven 
o’clock the old craving for work came upon me, and I 
sat between Liz and Mrs. Henfrey, silent and quite 
unable to shed a tear. Mr. Brandon then came in and 
asked if I thought there was anything that would do 
me good ; and I said yes : I wished to go out a walk in 
the shrubbery. He went away to have a path swepti 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


691 


and when it was ready he took me out. There was a 
cold north walk behind the trees, which was bare of 
snow, and there I began mechanically to walk up and 
down. The inability to shed tears was telling on me. 
I felt a burning pain in my brow ; but I longed for exer- 
tion and bodily fatigue. When he found that, he let me 
walk alone, standing near, and sometimes watching me. 
The driving wind was bitterly cold, and the chill earth 
made my feet numb ; but the mechanical exertion of 
walking seemed to be a relief to me, and I paced up and 
down in spite of his expostulations. 

Close to this walk, but facing south, was a little 
cottage consisting only of one room. Sometimes we 
had used it for our photographs, but it was fitted up for 
a study, and Giles often wrote in it. I now as I walked 
saw him drag wood into it, and then fetch some cushions 
from the house. I thought it was that he might sit 
there till 1 was ready to go in, but instead of that he 
lingered near, and I continued to walk till I was chilled 
to my very bones. At last he confronted me in the 
path, saying, ‘You must not stop here any longer.’ I 
was too weak to contend, and he took me by the hand 
and led me till we had emerged from the dull dark 
shrubbery, and were facing the little cottage. He 
brought me in, and I saw a great fire of wood on the 
andirons. A basket-work couch stood close to it, which 
was filled with the cushions that he had brought from 
the house. The sun was streaming through the stained 
glass windows, and all the place was cheerful and light 
and warm. But I heard the wind moaning outside, and 
longed to be out in it walking in the dark shrubbery ; 
for, sitting thus deprived of movement and yet not able 
to shed tears, I began to feel as if all power of endur- 
ance was over. And yet this misery did not rouse me 
to any energy ; it was very feebly that I complained to 
him, while my limbs trembled and my head swam, — 

‘ Oh, it is much worse for me indoors ! Why did you 
bring me here ? ’ 

‘ I brought you that you might speak. You are break-^ 
mg your heart in this silence. Complain to me, and say 


592 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


what you please that is bitter, either of Valentine o- of 
me.’ 

‘You are good to me now; I have no complaint 
against you.’ 

‘ Oh, yes, you have.’ 

‘ I did not know it ; I don’t care about it.’ 

‘ And against him ? ’ 

‘If I must talk of him, I will justify him.’ 

‘Oh, have pity on me ! It is as I thought. You could 
not excuse if you did not love him. Oh, the disgrace, 
the misery of it ! ’ 

He spoke huskily, but struggled with himself, and 
presently returned to the charge, saying, ‘ Don’t turn 
away your face ; give this trouble words.’ 

‘ I can’t ; you don’t understand.’ 

‘ Don’t I ? ’ he answered and sighed. ‘ Tell me then, 
and make me understand.’ 

His sympathy was so keen that for the moment it 
drew me out of myself. I experienced a sharp pang of 
pity for him, for I saw how he was suffering from the 
sense of disgrace that Valentine had brought on him. 
So I tried to tell him that I had not been utterly unpre- 
pared for this, and with that a burst of tears came to 
my relief, and I felt that the comforting warmth and 
sunshine were thawing my numb limbs, and that my 
heart, for all its aching, was less oppressed. 

‘There,’ he said, putting some cushions' about me that 
I might rest on them, ‘ let us reckon over the things that 
are lost, and consider whether any of them can possibly 
be supplied. If V alentine had been your true and faith- 
ful lover, and had been taken from you by death yester- 
day, would that have been a greater misfortune than it 
is to find him weak and dishonorable ? ’ 

‘It would have been a deeper sorrow; but then I 
should have felt that he had once been mine. Now he 
has taken himself away even from the past: he has 
robbed me not only of his affection, but of my own 
faith, my own idea. Oh, he is gone ! and it breaks my 
heart to think of what he must have gone through before 
he could have behaved in this way. You ought to have 
brought him hoine — ^ 


OFF THF SKFLLIOS. 


693 


* Brought him home ! brought him here ! ’ exclaimed 
St. George as if in amazement. 

* For then at least we should have known what he 
was about. I am tormented by the thought of his sus- 
pense. What is he doing, do you think ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ he answered bitterly ; ‘ perhaps long- 
ing for the’ letter that he expects from you, the letter 
wliich, it seems, since “ love covers a multitude of sins,” 
will, without any reproaches or resentment, give him all 
he wants — his release.’ 

I wrung my hands and wept while he spoke, and then 
covered my face with them. The forlornness of my posi- 
tion seemed to press upon me at that moment unbear- 
ably. My maid was sent away, my uncle was at sea: 
where should I go ? what should I do ? I had no rela- 
tions, no friends, no home. 

‘ Don’t, oh don’t ! I cannot bear it,’ I said, when he 
added more about Valentine ; ‘ he shall have the letter at 
once, and it shall be what he wishes. It will make me 
ten times more unhappy to think that he is miserable 
too. Don’t talk to me any more.’ 

He went to the window when I said this, and 1 
shivered in spite of the glowing wood fire, and longed 
to get away from him and from every one, and after this 
short rest to go out and pace again along the frozen 
paths. 

I had risen, and drawing my cloak about me had 
reached the door, when rousing himself from his reverie 
he laid his hand on the latch, and said with a kind of 
reproachful pleading, ‘ Dorothea.’ 

‘ I want to go out and walk,’ I entreated piteously. 

‘You are trembling, you are faint. I will take you 
back to the house if you please, but you must not walk 
in that bitter wind again. I dare not allow it.’ 

So restrained, I lost all self-command, and threw my- 
self on the couch sobbing. He would not let me go and 
walk, that was clear, though I begged and entreated 
like a child. 

He held my hand and reasoned with me almost with 
u woman’s patience. ‘ Oh/ I exclaimed when I had 

LL 


594 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


tried to rise and found I could not, ‘ if you will not let 
me walk, pray for me ! ’ 

During the last sleep I had fallen into, 1 had dreamed 
of the raft. We stood upon it in the night, he and I, 
and I knew of Valentine’s desertion, and begged him 
then to pray to God for me. My dream went on to show 
that he asked what he should pray for, and I had replied, 
‘ That God would make me contented, and make V alen- 
tine happier without me than we had hoped to be 
together.’ 

It was with this recollection in my mind that I re- 
peated the request of my dream, and it was certainly 
the last thing that could enter my heart to suppose that 
he would refuse it. 

‘ To pray for you ? ’ he repeated ; ‘ what, aloud ? Oh, 
I cannot do that ! Hasn’t there been enough of this ? ’ 
Then when I looked up at him with feeble wonder, he 
begged me to forgive him, and repeated in a choking 
voice that this was a thing he could not do. 

‘ I did not want you to pray that the marriage might 
come on again,’ I replied ; and when he made no answer, 
I went on, ‘ and if I had, I always thought you wished 
it to be, though none of the others did.’ 

‘ JVone of the others did^ he repeated as if shocked. 

‘No,’ I said, ‘none of them. I told Mrs. Henfrey so 
last night, — nothing matters very much now, — and I 
have had time enough since I came here to be sure that 
if they had wished it they would have said so, and the 
absent ones would have sent kind messages. Emily and 
Louisa have never so much as sent their love to me. 
Not one of them has been kind. So perhaps on the 
whole this is just as well.’ 

‘ If you say that I have not been kind,’ — he began and 
stopped short. 

‘No, I do not say so ; besides you told me that I had 
something to forgive you for.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ I cannot listen to what it was ; I do not care ; but 
it reminded me of what I have felt and believed and 
said about you. I remembered it in the night. If you 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


595 


only knew it all, how displeased you would be ! and 1 
suppose — ’ 

‘ Yes, try to tell me about this.’ 

‘ I meant to do it, but everything is such a long way ofl* 
I suppose we can never be friends unless I tell you about 
this. I wish I could, it was so unjust.’ 

My thoughts were getting dim by this time, and 1 
beard and saw everything as if it was taking place in 
some other world. ‘ It was a pity,’ I remember say- 
ing when I saw him come up to me, ‘ and it seems that 
it was all my own mistake.’ 

Should he forgive me, he inquired. 

‘ Oh, yes,’ I answered, ‘ and let us be friends.’ 

But if a man forgives on his knees, with a face of pas- 
sionate entreaty, it is likely to confuse the person for-- 
given, especially if there is alarm in the face. 

1 looked down at him and said, ‘ I am not ill ; why 
are you afraid ? ’ Agitation made his voice falter, and I 
did not hear his answer, but I went on, ‘You don’t 
understand; it is you that are to forgive — you,^ 

It seemed to me that far away some one said, — yes, 
he knew that. Would I let him kiss my hand then? 

I believe I said ‘ There is no need, and besides I have 
yet my glove on.’ I remember that I lifted up my hand 
then and considered that I could not have taken off that 
glove however much I might have tried. Then I 
observed that he had risen, that he was standing before 
the fire, and that he told me I had not really forgiven 
him ; but I was too utterly weary to contradict him. 
Indeed I had begun to feel that I did not much care 
whether we w’ere friends or not. 

Then after a time I noticed that he put some of the 
cushions again§it the high end of the basket-work couch. 
I leant my cheek against them, and he untied the ribbons 
of my cloak and hat. 

Oh, I thought, how delightful it would be if I could 
sleep! And then there came a moment of conscious 
delightful rest, and then I feel into a doze, and next into 
a dream. 

It was the only dream I ever had that realities often 


596 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


brought to my mind in after years — not that any of Its 
details were repeated correctly, but things often occur 
which remind me of it, and I have believed in prevision 
ever since. 

I was walking in a wood by the margin of a stream 
hardly three feet wide. A little child was holding me 
by the hand, and in its other hand and under the arm 
was tucked a straggling posy of long daisy asters and 
tall willow herbs, and it was singing all the while, for 
its own delight, in the sweetest small voice ever heard. 

I saw some one standing on a rise budding a tree. I 
perceived directly who it was, and said with all the com- 
posure and indilference of sleep, ‘Dear me, that is Val- 
entine, and no doubt I have married him after all.’ Then 
I looked about for ferns, for I understood that this was 
a New Zealand wood ; but I only noticed clumps of 
primrose, and the skeletons of poplar leaves, and there 
was water-cress in the stream. 

I observed a familiar look, and said, ‘ I did not think 
the two ends of the world were so much alike,’ and I 
suddenly became aware that a little blue smoke which 
was sifting through the branches of a cedar tree on the 
opposite side of the stream, came from the chimneys of 
Ml*. Mortimer’s house, and without surprise I saw St. 
George coming down to meet me. We approached a 
flat plank which served as a bridge ; he set his foot upon 
it to ascertain whether it was safe, held out his hand to 
my little charge, and between us we guided her over. 

Then I thought he snatched her up in his arms and 
kissed the small singing mouth with a rapture of pas- 
sionate love. ‘Oh!’ I said to him with a sudden un- 
satisfled longing in my heart, ‘ I love that little creature 
too ; ’ but as he held her face to meet mine I felt, as one 
sometimes does in a dream, that I was too late, my arms 
would not take her, my lips could not reach her, and in 
another instant I knew this was only a sleep, and that 
all of it was melting away. 

I got myself awake with a strange yearning at heart 
I remembered that I did not have that baby’s kiss and 
sighed for it before I remembered my own trouble ; but 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


697 


there was whispering in the room. How seldom one 
hears people whisper! It is the strangest, the most 
exciting, and the most suggestive sound in the world. 

I opened my eyes ; saw Mr. Brandon sitting on the 
floor mending the fire with fresh wood; and leaning 
over him, with her hand on his shoulder, was a lady. I 
saw some furs lying on the fioor, I heard the crackling 
of the wood ; but as he sat with his back to me, look- 
ing up at her while she listened intently, not a word of 
the whisper that floated from one of them to the other 
was audible to me, till, as he still spoke, this lady bent 
on one knee, and putting her other arm about him drew 
his head on her shoulder and held it there with her 
hand. Then she answered, and I heard her words, 
‘ As if I did not love you, except for that little squall- 
ing treasure of mine, more than all the rest of the world 
put together.’ And she began to excuse herself lovingl;^ 
for not having been able to come to him before. 

After this they whispered again, and I saw him take 
out Valentine’s letter. Then I gathered strength to 
rouse myself a little more, and as I lifted up my head 
the basket-work couch creaked ; on which the stranger 
rose and very gently came forward as if she did not 
wish me to be startled. No doubt I had heard of her, 
she said ; she was Emily, St. George’s sister Emily, and 
she was come to see what she could do to help. 

She had St. George’s dark cloudy hair, and a mouth 
like his, which when she smiled only showed the tips 
of the white even teeth ; and when I held out my hand 
to her, she leant over me with much the same move- 
ment she had used to her brother. ‘Don’t go,’ I en- 
treated. No, she would stay as long as I liked, an i 
she took me into her arms and into her possession in a 
way that, in spite of her youth, was quite motherly. 

I soon managed to say something to her about the 
letter, and proposed that St. George should go in and 
write one to Valentine, leaving her with me. I could 
not bear the thought of her going, and when St. George 
went away I occupied myself with listening to her voice 
and looking at her hands, till falling aslef^p again I 


598 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


heard still the gentle plashing of drops from the thatch, 
and the crackling breakage of small icicles from the 
trees, for there was a thaw in that sheltered place, 
though on the other side, where the north wind was rag- 
ing and the snow had been drifted away and swept away, 
the very snowdrops seemed to tremble and hang lower 
for the cold. 

Shortly Liz came, and St. George with her. They 
brought a letter, and some wine and jelly, which they 
gave to me. I did not like the letter at all; it was 
neither kind enough nor decided enough. Whereupon 
Emily produced a pencil, and said she would add any- 
thing I pleased at my dictation, if I was quite sure I 
knew my own mind. 

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I do. I wish entirely and for 
ever to release him from his engagement to me, and 1 
send my love to him and forgive him, for he has behaved 
better under the circumstances than I could have ex- 
pected.’ 

As they all looked amazed at this, and asked whether 
it was really to be sent, I had to explain that I knew 
he was weak; it would have been more like him to 
have yielded to circumstances, and then when it was 
too late, let me find out his deep attachment to another 
woman. I should have been miserable then about him, 
and he would have spoilt both our lives ; now he could 
but have spoilt one. 

‘Wait a minute,’ said Emily; ‘if that message id 
sent, the Oubit must do something in return.’ 

‘What need he do?’ I inquired, hurt at her calling 
him ‘ the Oubit,’ and speaking so indifierently. 

‘ He must answer, that he also entirely and for ever 
releases you from your engagement to him.’ 

‘ He will be glad enough to do that,’ said Liz con- 
temptuously. 

‘Unless there comes any hitch about this new aflair,^ 
continued Emily, appearing to consider. 

I felt at that moment that the ‘ Oubit ’ did not deserve 
either the bitter contempt of Liz, or the disparaging 
suspicions of Eniily, and I could not help saying, ‘ But 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


599 


he has met with a woman whom he loves now — whom 
he truly and deeply loves.’ 

‘No matter,’ said Emily; ‘this thing he must and 
shall do.’ And she actually added the condition she 
had mentioned. After which the little pony chaise was 
brought over the grass to our retreat, and Emily drove 
me to the house in it ; and shortly I felt so unwell that 
I went to bed, and they sent for their medical man. 

Mrs. Henfrey told him I had got the influenza, and 
he said my nerves had sustained a shock. I did not 
much care for anything, so long as I might lie still and 
have Emily. No tragical impressions could keep their 
dark hues long in the light of Emily’s presence ; and 
though she would call Valentine the ‘ Oubit,’ and some- 
times ‘ that boy,’ I felt that so long as I might hear her 
voice now and then in my chamber, and feel her com- 
forting arms, she might take whatever views she pleased 
of life, of Valentine, and of me. 

She came and sat by me in the night, and talked to 
me while the rest of that weary household slept. 

I said to her, ‘You like me well enough, now that 
we have met ; and yet I, knowing you were coming 
home from India, almost hoped you would not be in 
time for our wedding, for you had never taken any 
notice of me.’ 

‘I did not care to be in time,’ she answered ; ‘ and I 
do not like weddings.’ 

I was not going to betray to her that I heard her tell 
her step-brother how much she loved him; nor how, 
while she said it, I had noticed the wedding-ring upon 
her hand ; but she went on to talk of her husband. 
Poor Fred was so unwell that she had been obliged to 
settle him in the south of France at Cannes; but she 
got a telegram to tell her that things were going all 
wrong, so she came home as quickly as possible. Then 
of her own accord she told me that ‘ Fred ’ was fond of 
ner. ‘Every one must be,’ I said; ‘how can they 
help it?’ 

‘You told sister last night,’ said Emily, ‘that no one 
in the world cared very much for you.’ 


600 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


‘Valentine has proved that he does not; and he wai 
the only person who professed to feel anything particu 
lar,’ I replied. 

‘Yes,’ she answered, as if deep in thought. ‘And 
yet how little we can know of the inner life of those 
about us ! The affection we rested in and that was 
proclaimed to the world may fade and perish, while 
unsuspected by us our names may be precious to some 
common acquaintance whom we seldom trouble our- 
selves to think about. Who can tell ? Have you ever 
considered this question ? I often do.’ 

‘No; such an illusion could not come to me. I wish 
to look at things as they are. I had but one lover, 
and him I could not retain. Oh, you cannot think how 
utterly alone I am ! ’ 

She let me cry in her arms, and then she laid her 
head by mine on the pillow and soothed me to sleep. 

It was high day when we two awoke, and perhaps 
there was no real change in things about us ; but yet 
the snow, I thought, did not now look so cold, nor any 
of the bare hills so desolate. For three days I could 
hardly lift my head from the pillow, and yet I was free 
from some of the worst discomforts of illness. I had 
no fever ; I could sleep, and generally I could eat. 

All this time Mrs. llenfrey was exceedingly kind. 
She tended me with motherly care ; but the one person 
I wanted '^as Emily. Emily sat with her feet on the 
fender, and told me all sorts of things; and when I 
was nervous about Valentine, Emily laughed it me — 
nobody was better able to take care of himself! He 
did not feel the matter half so much as I did, I might 
hs sure. I began to love ‘ sister ’ more warmly when I 
isaw how generously good she was to Emily, — taking 
care that she should have her share of all Mr. Morti- 
mer’s little personal possessions. ‘ I saved this,’ or ‘ I 
put by that for you, my dear, for he was so fond of 
you.’ 

1 had never seen any one so free from jealousy, and I 
mentioned this to Liz and Emily one day. She and 
mamma were always like the most loving sisters, they 


OFF TEE SKELL1G8. 


601 


answered ; but poor Mr. Mortimer had a very unhappy 
youth, and perhaps that made a difference in his one 
daughter’s love for the woman who at last camt to his 
home to make him happy. For sister was about ten 
years old, — quite of an age to remark things, — when 
her mother eloped with a low, coarse man, and lived 
nearly twenty years not many miles from her old home 
in misery, disgrace, and wretchedness. Nothing could 
be done for her, and Mr. Mortimer, for all those years, 
was a broken-down, unhappy man. At last she died, 
and the second Mrs. Mortimer, who seemed to have 
been very easily won, was received by both husband 
and step-daughter as if she had been an angel : and in 
their opinion she always behaved like one. 

On the fifth day, when I woke, I heard to my dismay 
that Emily was going to Bath. Old Walker had given 
out that the gout would certainly fly to his heart, unless 
Emily came and gave him a true and particular account 
of his dear Fred. So Emily, who did not think much 
of the old man’s ailments, was to set forth that very 
morning. 

She sat by me before she went, and talked. She was 
full of life and hope. To be sure she rather shocked me 
when she gave way to irrepressible laughter over ‘ the 
Oubit’s’ letter to me, which came by that morning’s 
post. How angry I should have been if any one but 
Emily had laughed at this effusion ! How vexed I was 
when I found that before it was given to me Giles had 
read it aloud to her; for it seemed that poor Valentine 
had humbly sent it to his brother to ask if it would do. 
I cried; but I laughed too when I read that letter. 
There was something so painfully ridiculous in it ; for 
Valentine was quite devout and solemn. He conveyed 
the notion to me that pious gratitude for my kindness 
almost ovei-powered him. He* did not mean it ; but a 
man should be careful how he thanks God that he has 
been permitted to accomplish an unworthy action. 

‘Did St. George laugh over this?’ I inquired when 
I had very nearly sobbed and laughed myself into 
hysterics. 

26 . 


602 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


Emily hesitated. ‘ He always laughs over his own 
misfortunes,’ she said. So by that I knew he must have 
done it over mine. 

‘And that reminds me,’ continued Emily, — ‘you 
may take for granted that I know everything you know 
about him, and a great deal more. So, my darling, 
when you get better, do encourage him to talk about 
that love affair of his.’ 

‘Do you think he would like to talk of it?’ I 
asked. 

‘ I am sure he would ; and as you once said to him, 
you know, “ a woman can often do so much to help in 
such cases.” ’ 

‘ I will try ; but, oh ! I am so tired of love affairs.’ 

‘Well, here is one at least that you will never be 
troubled with again,’ said Emily, taking up the letter. 
‘ You see Valentine is so fervently desirous to show you 
that he complies with your condition, that he gives you 
up in all the long and strong words he can think of. I 
never read anything more convincing than his serious 
assurances that under no circumstances will he ever put 
forward his suit or his claims any more.’ 

Then, with all the encouraging words she could think 
of, with motherly caresses, and philosophical declara- 
tions that I should soon find this sorrow of mine was no 
great matter after all, the delightful young creature 
departed, and the tragical shadows she had kept 
instantly began to settle down over me again. 


OFF TEE SKELLIQ8. 


603 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

‘It never rains but it pours.* — Old Proverb, 

I T was not till Sunday morning, a full week alter 
the proposed wedding-day, that I suddenly felt 
quietness intolerable, and contrived with the maid’s 
help to get up and lie on the sofa. 

When this was accomplished I felt miserably weak, 
but it was time, I thought, that something should be 
done ; and Mrs. Henfrey seemed to think so too, for 
expressing her pleasure at seeing me up, she added, 
‘ And I am so particularly glad it should happen to-day, 
for Giles has got another letter from V alentine — a very 
humble one, 1 am sure, poor fellow, begging his brother 
to forgive him and come to him. The dear boy is 
very ill ; but Giles says he shall not leave the house till 
he knows what your wishes are.’ 

‘Poor Valentine!’ I said; ‘how much I should like 
to see him ! ’ And I was a little struck by their having 
begun, as of old, to call him a boy. 

‘Would you, my love?’ she answered with eager 
surprise. ‘Would you? You would not object, then, 
to his coming home while you are here. Dear me, I 
wish Giles could hear you say so.’ 

‘ Object ! dear Mrs Henfrey. Of course not. Object 
to his coming home ! ’ 

She seemed to reflect. ‘ I don’t think it is unreason- 
able to wish for him, poor fellow,’ she said ; ‘ and now 
his dear father is gone, I have but him to cling to.’ 

‘Oh, do tell Mr. Brandon I hope he will not keep 
Valentine away on my account.’ 

‘ W ell, my dear, if you would tell him so yourselfi 
You get moped from seeing only me; I should like you 


OFF THE SKELLIG3. 


f)04 

now to take possession of my little sewing-room, and 
then we could come in and out, and you would lose 
that nervous dread of seeing people. It is close to this 
room, you know.’ 

So I was moved into the little sitting-room, and saw 
the people coming from church over the field — saw Liz 
and Mr. Brandon walking home, and very soon the 
latter was brought into the room, and I exerted myself 
to beg that he would bring Valentine home. 

‘ The boy has not been used to this sort of treat- 
men c,’ said Mrs. Henfrey in her usual dispassionate 
tone. ‘ I am sure I don’t know why they should make 
such a fuss, they have nothing particular to blame him 
for ; and it’s my belief, after this letter, that when he 
sees the dear girl, and reflects on her kindness to 
him— ’ 

‘Dear Mrs. Henfrey! ’ I exclaimed, and this immediate 
opening again of the whole question completely over- 
came me in my then weak state. I began to cry most 
piteously, and felt so hurt, so humiliated, by that expres- 
sion, ‘ the boy,’ — perhaps his impending marriage was 
all that had hitherto made a man of him in their opin- 
ion, or perhaps they had spoken of him with more 
respect out of politeness to me. 

‘ There,’ she went on, and sighed, ‘ I told you how it 
was, Giles. Yes, my love, yes, he shall come.’ 

For the moment Mr. Brandon looked amazed, till 
roused by her composure and his surprise I fired up into 
something very like a passion, and asked them what 
right they had to suppose I would ever condescend to 
think of Valentine again — even if he wished it; which 
he never would. I felt myself degraded, I exclaimed, 
by the mere supposition. 

At this most unexpected retort both to myself and 
to them, Mrs. Henfrey colored with surprise and vex- 
ation. She had meant to be so kind, and now I had 
spoken of Valentine with a contempt which in all 
calmer moments I had been so careful to avoid, lest her 
feelings should be hurt. She arose quietly, and left the 
room, while I, sobbing with a painful compunction, 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


605 


exclaimed that I had never known that I felt any con- 
tempt for Valentine till she made me say this. 

St. George, however, soon made it evident to me that 
he was entirely on my side, and there was even some- 
thing of the charm of Emily’s manner in his gentle, 
almost loving way of talking, trying to calm me, and 
promising to take an apology to ‘ sister ’ from me, — • 
flattering and soothing by turns, and saying how 
pleased he was to find me getting well. 

‘ And you will not let any of them do this sort of 
thing any more ? ’ I entreated ; ‘ you will see that it is 
not done ? ’ 

He assured me most earnestly that he would. 

‘ Because, you know, I am your guest.’ 

‘Yes, you are my guest. Do you really wish me tc 
fetch Valentine?’ 

‘ Yes, I do, for I think he may take great harm in his 
present delicate health from want of the comforts of 
his home, and want of nursing ; but there is something 
else I should like to say, only I do not wish you to think 
me heartless.’ 

‘ I shall not find it possible to think that.’ 

‘Then, I hope you will make as light as you can 
to him of my illness. I hardly know how I came to be 
so ill — ’ 

Here I paused. My host, partly perhaps because 
he had just been reminded of his position, was very 
unwilling to be seen to smile at my words. He looked 
down, he looked everywhere but at my face, and he 
could not manage to hide how much he was both 
amused and pleased. 

‘ And so,’ I went on, with some feeling both of pain 
and pride abou" the matter, ‘ I should like you to make 
him (incidentally) quite sure that I am not breaking 
my heart about him ; ’ and having said this, I was obliged 
to cry a little more. I felt too weak to exp’ain to him 
that Mrs. Henfrey and I had not discussed this subject 
before ; I could only ask him some question as to Val- 
^ tine’s letter. 

He answered that the letter was not altogether a 


t)06 


OFF THE SKELLIQS. 


displeasing one to him ; and then he gradually unfolded 
to me what he had discovered concerning Valentine’s 
love affair. He had known the Nelson family about 
four months, and the eldest daughter, Lucy, had 
delighted him from the first. Mr. Brandon had seen the 
mother, who was exceedingly indignant, though it 
appeared that Valentine had never paid any great atten- 
tions to her daughter ; he had only been unable to keep 
away from her, and unable to conceal his exceeding 
admiration. Some rumor, it seemed, had reached 
them as to a boyish engagement ; but he seemed so 
young, and was so unsophisticated, that they did not 
believe it. It was because he heard that Lucy had been 
taken ill that he had felt impelled to pay his last visit 
there; and then, in the despair of his heart, he had told 
all. He had been attacked by severe infiuenza, and the 
Nelson family could not dismiss him at once ; but Mrs. 
Nelson had done her best to impress him with a sense 
of his dishonorable conduct, and had parted with him 
believing that he would go straight home. But that it 
seems he could not possibly do ; he could not face and 
accept the destiny he had been once at so much pains 
to carve out for himself ; and he had lingered at a vil- 
lage inn, and at last had gone to London. ‘ In short,’ 
said his usually indulgent brother, ‘he had behaved 
almost as badly as he could have done.’ 

‘ Did you see Miss Nelson ? ’ I inquired. 

‘ Yes, her mother brought her in, but of course nothing 
on that subject was said.’ 

‘And what did you think of her?’ 

He hesitated, and almost stammered. ‘ I thought — 
oh, I thought there was a great deal of self-command 
and womanly dignity about her.’ 

I could not have asked whether he thought she 
loved Valentine, but his belief that she did had been 
betrayed by the caution and embarrassment of his 
words. 

‘ Then his fate is in your hands,’ I observed, ‘just as 
it always has been — only you will have me to help 

you.’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


60 


‘ Shall I ? That is a partnership which would greatly 
please me.’ His face expressed so much pleasure as 
fully to confirm his words; but I think he was very 
much surprised when I went on to ask if I might write 
to Lucy. 

At last, when I felt calm again, I begged him to go 
forthwith and fetch his brother ; and he agreed to go 
that very night by the two o’clock train. 

Valentine was very ill, had a serious cough, was 
feverish, and could not be so well nursed as at home. 
I knew Giles had always thought badly of his state , of 
health, and could not bear to think of standing in 
the way of his being comfortable and among his own 
people. 

They were to travel down on Tuesday morning, but 
Valentine, when Giles reached him, was worse than had 
been expected, and their return was put off several 
times. 

In the meantime I had leisure and quiet to think of 
what I could do, and there was no one to advise or to 
interfere. The old doctor who came to see me daily 
promised to name the earliest time at which I might 
travel safely, and I felt an urgent desire to get away. 
I wished to see V alentine, make it evident both to him 
and to his family that I completely forgave him, and 
then go, and in a new scene try to forget him and this 
miserable episode in my life. 

I wrote to Mr. Mompesson again, and this time had 
a favorable answer. He and his wife would be truly 
pleased to take me home to them. They had given up 
their pupils, and were gone to live in the Isle of Wight, 
near Ventnor. They would make me as happy as they 
could. 

It was several days before Valentine and Giles were 
reported as likely to appear, and I wae sitting one sunny 
morning with my feet up on the sofa in Mrs. Henfrey’s 
little sitting-room, when she entered and said quietly, 
‘ My dear, they are come.’ 

They followed close on this announcement — Giles 
with a face of guarded gravity, and Valentine slinking 


608 


OFF THE SKELLlOa. 


behind, blushing and crest-fallen. Mrs. Henfrey and 
Giles kept up a short conversation for the purpose of 
setting us more at our ease, and then left us alone. 

But Mr. Brandon turned back from the door to put 
some fresh wood on the fire and request us not to talk 
very long. It would tire me, he said, and make V alen- 
tine cough. 

He then retired, and Valentine, relieved from his 
presence, laid his head down on the end of the sofa and 
sobbed out : — ‘ She won’t have me, — D. dear ! She 
says she never will ; so now I’ve lost you both ^ — and 
serve me — serve me right too ! ’ 

I had begun to shed tears also from sympathy, and I 
replied that he must not despair. Lucy would most 
likely accept him after a time, if he would only per- 
severe. 

Was there ever such an undignified remark on such 
an occasion, or such an undignified answer ! 

We sat side by side, and he condoled with me on 
account of all I had gone through, as if it had been no 
fault of his ; and I, utterly without any feeling of indig- 
nation against him, condoled in my turn. 

He was comforted to have his old friend to talk to ; 
and such was the confiding ease and simplicity of his 
nature, that when he had humbly begged my forgive- 
ness, and I bad most heartily assured him of it, he 
could find consolation in unbosoming himself as of 
old, and in ten minutes, or perhaps even fewer, he was 
mourning and lamenting again over the hard-hearted- 
ness of his beloved Lucy. 

It appeared that he and Lucy had exchanged several 
letters already — how odd, 1 thought, that this shculd 
nave been allowed by the mother ! 

‘ She won’t have me,’ he sighed ; ‘ it’s in vain that I 
tell her you always declared that you did not particu- 
larly love me : she says I trifled with her. 1 1 Why, 
I’m quite sore with loving her.’ 

‘O Valentine!’ I said, a little reproachfully; ‘what, 
quoting already, and on such a subject ? ’ 

Valentine had a very bad cold, and looked wretchedly 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


609 


ill ; but this, and his love for Lucy, and the dread he 
had felt of seeing me, and the humble apology he had 
just made, could not keep him grave and low-spirited 
for long together. 

‘I’m just come home,’ he pleaded, ‘and you’re such 
a brick, D. — you blessed little creature ! — your 
behavior, after the way I’ve been treated lately, is such 
a change, such a treat, that I can’t help rejoicing.’ 

‘ Have they been so severe with you then ? ’ 

‘ Severe ! Some have been beaten till they know what 
wood a cudgel’s of by the blow. Yes, D., if it’s any 
pleasure to you to know it, they have been very 
severe.’ 

‘ Your brother ? ’ 

‘ Giles ! ah, when first he found me — ^ 

‘ W ell, V alentine ? ’ 

‘ Oh, don’t ! I cannot think of it, — he has been so 
good to me since, — minded it so much less than a 
fellow could have expected, considering what he said 
at first.’ 

‘ Indeed ! ’ 

‘Yes; but, D., I am disgraced in his eyes, notwith- 
standing, for he will scarcely let me mention your 
name.’ 

‘ If it had not been for him, I do not really know, 
Valentine, what I should have done.’ 

‘ O my dear D., I am so sorry. Yes, of course, he 
would be kind and attentive to you — ^ Then came a 
terrible fit of coughing, and he continued, — ‘ but I am 
so utterly tired, so jaded, that I hardly care for any- 
thing.’ 

‘ Excepting for Lucy.’ 

‘Yes, for Lucy, but I shall never have her.’ He 
rested his chin on his hand, and mournfully gazed into 
the fire with his beautiful brown eyes ; then sighed, 
‘ She’ll be sorry perhaps when it’s too late ; for I shall 
never recover. She’ll get some one else to love her, 
“ and monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that 
goes to pot.” ’ 

At this most unlikely point he shed two more tears, 

26^ MM 


610 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


and I felt a choking in my throat that forced me to weep 
too. ‘ I shall never recover,’ he had said. Alas ! whether 
(le truly believed that or not, I did. I thought the ex- 
treme delicacy of his constitution had met with a shock 
that it would not withstand, and I ceased to wonder 
that his family wanted him home to be nursed, and that 
his brother should be so anxious that all should be 
foi’gotten and forgiven. 

Poor fellow ! he said he had had no sleep that night, 
and had eaten no breakfast, being so much afraid of 
seeing me. His cold was so bad that he could not 
speak in his natural voice, and his whole manner showed 
how ill he was and how much he had suffered. Yet 
there was a strange want of seriousness about him, 
though I could see plainly that in a fitful sort of way he 
was both ashamed and sorry, and that in the same 
manner and degree that he had always liked me he 
liked me still. 

Giles was the person of whom he seemed chiefly to 
think ; he was far more ashamed that his brother should 
know how badly he had acted than that I should ; and 
he acknowledged one or two things to me which proved 
that even before our engagement, and while he was on 
his probation, he had not always been very constant. 
But Giles had pulled him up for it — had talked to him, 
as he said, about me, and between his pride and his 
affection kept him tolerably true till a real passion came 
in his way. 

This was what Mi\ Brandon had meant then by 
paying that I had somewhat against him. He had 
calculated, it seems, on Valentine’s making a loving 
husband, though he was but a half-hearted suitor and 
lover of mine, as he was earnest in assuriAig me he 
never truly was. 

‘ You ought to have confided in me,’ I remarked, 

‘ and then we should neither have been made so ridicu- 
lous nor so unhappy.’ 

And how did be reply? First by a violent fit of 
sneezing ; then when he could speak, which he did in a 
broken cracked voice, and shivering all the time, he did 
it in these words ; — 


OFF TEE SKELLiaS. 


611 


* When budding manhood stoops to folly 
And finds too late that life betrays, 

What charm can soothe his melancholy ? 

What art recall his jollier days? ’ 

Anollier violent fit of sneezing, coughing, and sniffings 
and he went on — 

* The only art when taunts are bitter, 

The only charm his soul to ease. 

To harrow the conflicting critter 
And wring her bosom, is to sneeze.’ 

‘ I invented that as I came along,’ he said. 

I could not say anything. The tragedy of life seemed 
to shrink down into a corner, as if ashamed of itself, and 
I cried while I felt that it did so, and yet I laughed too, 
rather bitterly. I began to think, in good truth, that 
surely this was all for the best. 

He was soon exhausted with talking, and glad to 
betake himself to his own room. 

The next day I was so well that 1 came down to 
breakfast, but Valentine was not able to rise, and we 
all felt uneasy about him. I found out soon after 
breakfast another thing that disturbed them. Mr. 
Crayshaw, who had several times stayed at Wigfield, 
and been repeatedly pressed to fix a day for coming 
again, had telegraphed from Chester to say that, if quite 
convenient, he would come with his wife and child and 
her two young brothers. He could only stay for a day 
or two. 

‘ But Giles had to write and put them oflT, of course, 
said Liz. 

I had noticed that all the friends and neighbors kept 
at a respectful distance, — not a creature came near the 
house ; and this, no doubt, was out of consideration for 
their mortifying and ridiculous position. 

‘ I think if the Crayshaws are put ofi* on my account,’ 
I said, ‘it is rather hard. I cannot bear that there 
should be so many annoyances about me.’ 

‘ Never mind,’ she answered ; ‘ we really could not 
face our friends just yet. Besides, your dear Emily in 


612 


OFF THE 8KELLI08. 


coming back this morning, and she will console yon 
and us.’ 

The dear Emily did come, and I begged her not to 
let that letter be posted; the Crayshaws had not been 
a week in England, could know nothing of our alfairs 
If they might come, I would keep in my room, and 
they need not even know I was in the house. 

At her request I went up with her to the room at the 
top of the house, and was surprised and touched at the 
pleasure St. George expressed at my kindness in letting 
the Crayshaws come, 

I perceived that she supposed us to be quite intimate 
and very friendly ; and really, under the influence of 
this notion of hers, and her own easy openness, we 
actually for the time became so. St. George was made 
to write another letter to the Crayshaws, mainly at her 
dictation, and my presence as a guest was openly 
mentioned in it. 

‘ But I do not intend to be present,’ I remarked. 

‘ Oh, yes, my dear, you will. A little society will be 
the very thing to do you good. Besides,’ she continued, 
‘ I wish to dress you up myself in one of the Parisian 
gowns, and cut out the lovely little American, if we 
can.’ 

St. George held the pen suspended over the page, 
and appealed to me with his eyes. I felt my heart fail 
me at the notion of being present among a party of 
strangers ; but I saw very plainly how much he wished 
it ; and when she said, ‘ The sooner you appear among 
your friends the less you will feel it,’ and he said 
appealingly, ‘ Dorothea,’ I consented. Now that I was 
likely always to be Miss Graham, he had at last given 
up addressing me by that name. He thanked me, and 
said, while he sealed the letter, ‘Crayshaw will be 
pleased to see this old house again; he is perfectly 
infatuated about it.’ 

‘ I do not wonder ; I think it the most charming old 
house I ever was in. How you can think of leaving it, 
perhaps selling it) to go and live in that dreary New 
Zealand I cannot think.’ 


OFF THE SKELLI08, 


613 


am not going to leave it,’ he answered, with a 
sunny smile. ‘I told V'al so this morning. I hope to 
live here all my life. But I thought you liked the 
notion of going to New Zealand.’ 

‘No, I always thought it a great disadvantage; 
but then you know it sometimes is the disadvantage 
that reconciles one to a thing. Is it one o’clock, 
Emily?’ 

‘ Yes ; why?’ 

‘ I had better go down then. Valentine sent word 
that he should be down about one o’clock.’ 

‘ What business had he to send you any such mes- 
sage ? ’ said Emily indignantly. 

‘ He is dull,’ I replied rather coldly ; ‘ and I suppose 
as I have formally declared that I forgave him, he 
naturally expects me to behave to him as usual.’ 

‘Well, I will go down and tell him you are coming 
soon,’ said Emily, and she looked a good deal vexed • 
whereupon I, remaining behind in a comfortable easy- 
chair, began to expostulate with St. George about the 
change in their manner towards Valentine. I hoped 
they would behave to him as before. ‘ Why should any- 
one resent for me what I do not resent for myself?’ I 
went on. ‘ I have forgiven him.’ 

‘ I never pretended to resent it,’ said St. George* 
‘ And I forgave too,’ he presently added, in a cogitative 
tone. ‘ I forgave you ! It was very kind of me.’ 

‘Yes, I remember.’ 

‘ I do not at all know what it was for,’ he added, with 
a smile. 

‘And I have no intention that you should,’ I 
answered, feeling that Valentine was already passed 
into* the background, and that I could not help it. 

‘ I wonder,’ he went on, standing on the rug and 
looking down on me, ‘how you mean to show your 
sense of my kindness.’ 

‘ If I thought there was anything that you had par- 
ticularly at heart, perhaps I might offer you my valua- 
ble advice upon it.’ 

‘Would you?’ he exclaimed, with such a sudden 


614 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


surprise, and such a lighting up of his whole face, that 
I saw at once he knew what I intended, and I was 
vexed to feel that while I only meant to allude to some- 
thing remote, I had brought the whole subject over 
him and above him. 

‘And you smiled again. I like to see you smile,’ he 
presently went on, without looking at me. ‘ What a 
relief it would be to me if I could talk of that — of 
this ? ’ 

‘Your good genius said to me that she thought you 
were in better spirits about it — more hopeful lately. I 
am glad.’ 

‘ My good genius ? ’ 

‘ 5fes, Emily.’ 

I saw that he was not only moved, but exceedingly 
pleased ; and as he stood turning his face towards the 
window, his eyes were full of broodings over a pas- 
sionate dream. My words, so unexpected, appeared to 
have brought his love vividly before him, to stand in 
his presence ; but his smile had hope in it, and his eyes, 
more moist than usual, wandered over the wide leafless 
woods and the sunny fields. 

‘ And so you will help me ? ’ he said at last. 

‘ I have no thought that I can help ; but I can give 
you at least my sympathy. You cannot think,’ I pres- 
ently said, when he continued silent, ‘ how much, since 
I have been unhappy myself, I have wanted something 
to be glad about for some one else.’ 

‘ I am far from sure that there will ever be anything 
to be glad about for me.’ 

No, I thought to myself, and I shall find it hard to 
allude to this again, too great an efiect follows, and this 
hope of his may be all moonshine for anything I know 
about it. 

I heard the lunch bell just then, and wo rose and 
went down. That luncheon among them all was a 
refreshing meal. They talked of common matters — • 
how Louisa and her husband were slowly returning 
through France, with ‘dear Fred’ and little Fred. 
Emily was very eloquent about little Fred — a charm- 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 615 

Jig cliild, indeed, by her account, only she wished us all 
;o know that he had white eyelashes. 

I was not strong enough to go out and walk after 
luncheon, so I sat in the morning room with Mrs. Hen- 
crey and Valentine, who preserved still a great degree 
of silence and reserve toward each other. The room, 
m fact, became so quiet that I wearied of it, and went 
and walked up and down in the dining-room, pleased to 
find myself gaining strength and spirits; but I could 
not do this long, and was glad to go up-stairs and rest, 
till, the short winter afternoon closing in, Emily came 
and fetched me down to afternoon tea in the morning 
room, after which, in spite of the murmur of voices 
about me, I fell fast asleep on the sofa, and when I 
awoke the curtains were drawn and the room was dusk ; 
but Emily went and stirred and shifted the logs on the 
hearth till a lovely red glow mounted up the walls, and 
lighted their faces and gleamed in their eyes, for Giles 
was in the room as well as herself, though at first, as he 
leaned back in his chair on the opposite side of the lire, 
he was so much withdrawn into the shadow that I did 
not see him. As the rosy light fell over me he 
remarked, speaking of me by name, how well I was 
looking. This name of mine always seemed to be 
rather different in his mouth from its familiar sound 
and meaning ; he hesitated a little over the syllables, so 
that they took an appreciable time to be said in. 

‘ And so are you,’ said Emily, laughing ; ‘ I never saw 
you looking so well in your life! I believe she must 
have put something into your head this morning.’ And 
I, turning my face towards him, could not help saying 
rather anxiously, ‘No, I hope not.’ 

‘ But I promised I would go and play to the Oubit,’ 
she continued, rising. ‘ You are so determined that he 
shall be treated with all consideration that I dare not 
refuse him anything.’ 

‘Why did you say, “I hope not?’’ he asked the 
moment she had shut the door. 

‘ Emily’s way of talking about this kind of thing ap- 
pears alway^j to make it of less importance,’ I said by 


616 


OFF TEE SKELLIGS. 


way of answer; ‘mine, I think, does not. Besides, 1 
know so little about it that I am afraid of saying the 
wrong thing.’ 

‘But 1 want to tell you more about it if you will 
listen.’ 

I said I would, and then there came a long silence, 
which at last had to my mind almost a ridiculous effect, 
and I broke it by saying, — 

‘It seems to me that we cannot talk about this unless 
we give the lady a name. Suppose I say that her 
name is Margarita. May I ask whether you correspond 
with Margarita ? ’ 

‘No, I have not that honor.’ 

‘I suppose she is not engaged?’ 

‘No,’ he answered, but he faltered and hesitated a 
little. 

I was so much afraid of producing again the bad 
effect of our morning talk, that I said to him only half 
in earnest, ‘ The reason why you cannot get on with her 
is that you are so very deferential. Now, Margarita is 
not at all the kind of girl to be treated with deference 
Evidently not, or this would not have been going on so 
long.’ 

‘ Are you so sure of that ? ’ 

‘Yes : you and I and Smokey are friends; we know 
all about it. We consider that you are a little bit faint- 
hearted ; and as you and I only a few days ago came so 
near being brother and sister, and as you have expressly 
asked for my advice, I am going to speak to you as 
freely as under any circumstances 1 could have done.’ 

‘ But you are not going to treat the matter in what 
you and Emily call a tragical spirit ; that is evident’ 

‘No; and I am now going to give you some reallj? 
excellent advice, which, I assure you, I have considered 
deeply. I advise you, without any farther delay, to go 
to Margarita, and tell her she must marry you, — say 
you insist upon it, and make her do it.’ 

‘ Make her ! ’ he exclaimed, starting up, ‘ make her,’ 
— but he could not help laughing, — ‘how can you 
give me such ridiculous advice, you spiteful fairy ? ’ 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S, 


617 


‘1 am in earnest, I assure you. I do not mean that 
you are to say it in so many words, though even that 
might have a very good effect. But you must get the 
masteiy over her, — you easily can; and I have no 
doubt, if the real truth was known, that you not only 
could get almost any woman to marry you (who does 
not care for some one else), but that yoic think so,F 

The tragical element was overcome. To my delight 
he laughed, and declared that he never could hold his 
own when he talked to me. Then he added, ‘Well, 
since I am at confession, I may as well admit that I 
think with a fair field and no favor I could persuade 
almost any woman to marry me, excepting this one — 
this only one that I love and live for.’ 

‘ There, I said so ! I always used to think you had 
rather a high opinion of yourself when first I knew 
you.’ 

‘ Had I ? W ell, it is all beaten out of me now.’ 

‘ That is a pity. It became you. It was not in the 
least unreasonable. In fact, I think it was decidedly 
moderate, considering your various advantages.’ 

‘ Advantages ! ’ he exclaimed, with evident surprise. 

‘ Of course. I know few men who have so many.’ 

I stopped short here, surprised again at the effect of 
my words, and wondering at the amount of hope tha** 
seemed to arise in his heart at another person’s sugges- 
tion. I felt a pang of compunction to think that I 
should have said, with so little thought, words that 
moved and stirred him so much ; for as the firelight 
flickered on his face I saw its strange, sweet elation, and 
then that there was something which was almost shame 
in it, — a change of hue, which, in a fair man, might 
almost have been called a blush. 

Wondering what meaning he could attach to my 
words, and thinking to show my real aim, I presently 
said, — 

‘ You have, for instance, the advantage of a fine 
voice — a very delightful voice. If you feel that you 
cannot be eloquent otherwise, you can sing — sing to 
her, tell her so, — anything you wish her to learn.’ 


618 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


But here he hastily interrupted me ; said he had been 
foolish, and with a certain caution and choosing of his 
words which attracted my attention, declared that he 
had not meant the conversation to go to such topics, — 
til at he could not accept these flattering remarks cf 
mine. 

Vexed with himself, but not content to give up talk- 
ing, he began again in quite a difierent tone : — 

‘ Valentine, I believe, made you many offers ? ’ 

‘ Oh, yes, dozens and dozens. I refused a great many 
of them,’ — here, quite unexpectedly to myself, I could 
not help shedding a few tears ; ‘ but you see I accepted 
him at last, as, I hope, Margarita will accept you.’ 

Thereupon he informed me that he had not yet found 
fitting occasion to make even one ofier. 

‘Not one!’ I exclaimed, in amazement; ‘and not 
find fitting occasion ! Why, anything and everything 
will do for an occasion, as I have had ample experience. 
Valentine once made one on occasion of his having a 
new hat with a brim that I said was too broad. I have 
known him make one when you gave him £1 18 ^., the 
change out of a bill.’ 

I was a little angry at this moment, partly because I 
had been excited to shed those tears, partly because St. 
George, who had hitherto seemed to be a brave and 
manly person, appeared now to show a backwardness 
towards this Margarita, which was something more than 
deference, and which annoyed almost as much as it puz- 
zled me. I had felt desirous to get the conversation 
away from its more serious phases, and now I did not 
know how to manage it; and yet I saw that he wanted 
to go on discussing this unlucky love of his. So I pres- 
ently said, — for I remembered that he was my host, 
and I ought to be moderately civil to him, — ‘ Margarita 
must indeed be formidable, since you find it so difficult 
even to speak to her. Your caution, too, warns me to 
use all respect. Is she very lovely ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘but she does not think so.’ 

‘ In that case her beauty is no bar ; it does not 8igmfy4 
Is she very rich ? ’ 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 019 

Here theie was a pause. Then he answered, ‘ Yes, 
but she does not know it.’ 

‘Amazing Margarita ! I never heard of such a myste- 
rious creature. I might answer, “ Then that does not 
signify,” only that all you say is more and more re- 
markable.’ 

‘Yes, it is. Will you consider what it probably 
means ? ’ 

‘ Dear St. George, 1 am afraid it means that you have 
a rival.’ ' 

‘Yes, a rival. I had a rival. I am not sure whether 
he is my rival still ; but he was such a one as I found it 
impossible to stand against.’ 

‘ His advantages were so great ? ’ 

‘ My disadvantages were so great.’ 

‘ One of them, I am afraid, was that you loved her 
much more than he did, and that your love took away 
your self-possession, so that you had not so much to say 
for yourself as you should have had.’ 

‘ You feel sure, then, of my love for — for Margarita.’ 

‘ Of course, who could doubt it ? I am quite sure you 
love her far more than I ever loved anything ; but you 
should at least have entered the lists with your rival.’ 

‘ I loved her first,’ he answered, ‘ and I never counted 
on such an evil chance as her being won before I 
spoke — ’ 

‘ But you speak of many disadvantages. May I learn 
something of one of them ? ’ 

‘ One of them was a family obligation, he answered 
in a low voice. ‘ I could not enter the lists with my 
rival ; duty and honor, on account of this, were against 
it.’ 

As he spoke he turned towards me, and something in 
his voice, in the low clear tone and the weighing of hia 
words, aiTested my attention, and fixed it on him more 
and more. 

I had wondered at him. It was hardly manly, I 
thought, to have been afi’aid to speak, and now with a 
strange thrill of astonishment and perplexity I looked 
and listened. 


620 


OFF THE SKELLIQ8. 


‘ A lady,’ he repeated, ‘ a relative of mine, was andef 
a great obligation — ’ 

‘ To your rival ? ’ 

‘ No, to his father.’ 

‘ Indeed.’ 

‘ Yes ; but nothing I am going to say to you demands 
any answer. I intend to convey nothing to you but 
inloimation. My self-respect will not suffer me to with- 
hold that any longer, at whatever disadvantage to my- 
self it may be given. That lady whom I spoke of — 

‘ Yes,’ I answered ; ‘ wait a moment. I have not wished 
to talk of this because it seemed to bring your love so 
vividly before you. It is not because I take no interest 
in it, or in you, that I have laughed sometimes to-night. 
Pardon me. I have been unhappy. I think this must 
have made me dull.’ 

Something, I knew not what, but certainly other than 
the truth and the reality, seemed to draw near to me 
then. It was a light, — it was a shadow, — it was a 
wonder, — and through all it was a keen consciousness 
of the intense life, and passionate feeling, and cautious 
words I was encountering and sometimes baffling. 

I gave it up, and said to him quietly, perhaps even 
humbly, for I was puzzled, — ‘ I wish you would let me 
look at your face.’ 

Thereupon he moved in his chair, and turning it 
towards me smiled ; and there flashed a sudden thought 
into my heart, that if I had been Margarita I should not 
liave liked him to smile so on any one else in the world 
but only on me. 

‘ Go on now,’ I ventured to say to him ; ‘ you were 
talking of your rival.’ 

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘and his father. That lady whom 
I spoke of, she was under a great, almost a supreme ob- 
ligation to him. (I would fain have told you this more 
gently, and now, I am afraid, it is not only too soon, 
but it will be an astonishment and a shock to you after 
all.) She was a widow, that lady, she had no one to 
take care of her. There was a lawsuit instituted which 
threatened to depiive her and her son of every sliilhng 


OFF TEE SKELL108. 


cm 


they possessed. And this man, this old man, when she 
was so more than poor, married her and brought up all 
her young children as if they had been his own, and 
watched over her affairs, and at last gained the lawsuit 
for her, risking much of his own property to do it, 
and — ’ 

‘ This old man,’ I repeated to myself as he paused. I 
had heard him say those words before, and always in 
such a loving tone. My heart trembled in me, and for 
the first time since I had seen him again Valentine 
seemed very dear to me ; while with a choking voice 
and tears falling I said, ‘ Who was that lady ? I wish 
to know her name.’ 

‘ Who was that lady ? ’ he answered, with a low clear 
thrill in his voiee that sounded in my ears long after- 
ward, — ‘Who was that lady? My mother was that 
lady, and my rival was my only brother. He was the 
old man’s son.’ 


622 


OFF THE SKELLfGH 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

N ot beautiful, not intellectual, scarcely even a(y 
complished. How strange the infatuation which 
could invest such a common life and being with 
a halo so lovely and so lasting ! 

The misfortune of it, for the moment, completely over- 
came me, and with passionate tears and keen self- 
reproaches I remembered first of all how coolly I had 
treated his attempts to enlighten me ; then, his words, 
that ‘she had sometimes said very cruel things;’ and 
then, what a little, what a very little while it was since 
I had come down to that house very well content to 
marry Valentine. I was sorry next that I had ever let 
him know I did not love Valentine ; and I believe when 
he came round to the back of the sofa, my first words 
were something very like a reproof. 

The whole situation came before me with such miser- 
able clearness, — Valentine having had no one to help 
him, no one to depend on but this very brother, and my 
having accepted it all, utterly unconscious of its cost. 

‘ Oh,’ I exclaimed, when he leant towards me, begging 
me to be calm, ‘ this is all so strange — and then the 
sorrow came such a little while ago.’ 

‘Yes; you do not think that I forget this; and that 
if all had gone well with you I should then have given 
you away myself, and put you out of my reach forever ? 
Do not be afraid ; you are not asked to bestow an^ ihing 
— only to be aware of something that you receive ; and 
there is nothing for you to say — nothing.’ 

‘ I wish much to say something, if I could. I feel that 
I must have appeared ungrateful, and I cannot under- 
Bland this at all.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


623 


‘ But you will believe it, and you will trust me. You 
told Emily there was no one in the world who deeply 
loved you. If you think my love for you has cost me 
any suffering ; if you think it was bitter not only to 
forego the hope of you myself, but to keep active in my 
young brother’s heart the affection that I believed you 
lived for, will you now trust me so far as to let mo 
bestow my love in peace ? and will you be sure that 
when a time to speak comes I will found no hopes on 
any regard and interest and confidence you may have 
shown me in the mean time ? ’ 

‘ There is no one whom I ought to trust so much ; but 
make me a promise in your turn : promise me — ’ 

‘Ask me this to-morow,’ he interrupted, ‘not now. 
Give me your hand now, and let me have it in mine for 
a moment — ’ 

‘ But you will try to overcome this imagination ; foi 
no one even who loved you could content it. The per- 
son whom you cherish in your heart is not in the least 
like me.’ 

A small, unimportant life ! an insignificant hand I 
How hard, I thought, as he took it, that it should have, 
even for the moment, so much power ; for I knew that 
his trembled. I never felt so again. I perceived, for 
the first time in my life, when it touched his lips, the 
true attitude of manhood towards womanhood. To 
some few men — and tliese are generally the best — God 
gives that exaltation of heart, that wonderful addition 
to what is commonly known to be love, which makes it 
all one to them as if they were shown the ideal wife, as 
first she was given ; — the pureness and the perfectness 
that IS NOT, and yet is destined to raise them as if it 
WAS. 

‘ Now, whatever happens I shall not be always ham- 
pered, and sometimes put to shame, by the wretched 
feeling that I am obliged to conceal things that ought 
to be known, and let you say what you never would say 
if only you knew the truth.’ 

Before he left me he was very anxious to impress 
upon me that there was nothing for me to do or to say. 


624 


OFF THE SKELLlOb. 


But there was certainly a good deal for me to think ; 
and when I got up to my own room to dress, I cried so 
heartily over both those two brothers, that I could not 
possibly come down to dinner. I seemed to have done 
such irretrievable mischief to them. There was Yaleii' 
tine sneaking about the house, crest-fallen and silent, 
on my account. I often felt ashamed of him, and yet 
very angry with myself for seeing that he deserved it. 
And now here was St. George, — I could not overcome 
altogether the long reserve, and coldness, and jarring 
words, and uneasy recollections there had been between 
us, — how enthusiastic my feelings had been once to- 
wards him ! I knew he more than deserved them all 
now ; but they were gone, and could not revive. And 
the more I thought over all that he had said, the more 
puzzled I felt. 

I could not make up my mind to come down the next 
day till after breakfast, when Emily entered silently 
and kissed me, and took me with her into the morning 
room, where a discussion was going on as to the dinner 
party in the evening. There would only be eleven 
people, not counting the two boys, and there ought to 
be twelve. Lou was expected about lunch-time, and 
* Jemmy ’ and ‘ dear Fred.’ 

That being one of my lucky days, I said, ‘ There is 
Mr. a Court, will he do?’ I knew he was a good and 
stupid man, and that I should not mind seeing him. 

It appeared that he would exactly do if I did not 
mind his coming, and a note was sent off to him ; but 
while it was on its way he called, accepted the invita- 
tion to dinner, and proposed to stay lunch also, on his 
way to see some poor people in his father’s parish. 

Valentine, I was pleased to find, was wonderfully 
better ; and he was so relieved, poor fellow, at the pros- 
pect of visitors in the house ; for as his health improved 
his sisters made more evident a certain difference of 
feeling towards him, and he knew they could not be 
uncivil to him before strangers. 

‘Isn’t it nasty of them?’ said Valentine to me con- 
fidentially. ‘ If it weren’t for St. George I don’t know 
what I should do.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOb. 


G25 


We went in to lunch, and it was on this occasion that 
Dick, apparently lifted quite out of himself, actually 
made a, joke, — something at least that he meant for a 
joke, — and he laughed at it himself till we all burst out 
into laughter too. 

There was a hare for lunch, and in course of time 
Dick said he would take some more. 

‘More hare!’ exclaimed St. George; ‘why, this is 
the hare with many friends! I don’t think there is 
any more, Dick,’ he went on, and poked it about, 
‘ excepting the shoulders, and they are getting cold.’ 

‘ And you would not offer the cold shoulder to me, 
surely, Giles ! ’ exclaimed Dick, and repeated ‘ the cold 
shoulder’ as if he regarded the notion of any coolness 
between himself and St. George as an exquisite 
joke. 

Then as soon as we had finished our lunch, Dick said, 
quite deliberately and composedly, to Liz, that he 
wanted to speak to her. Liz rose and went into the 
morning room, and he followed. The extraordinary 
efforts that they all made not to laugh were crowned 
with success ; and in less than five minutes the little 
man opened the door again, crossed the hall, and went 
his way, and Liz came back. She looked puzzled, and 
seemed to be reflecting. Her gold watch-chain had 
come off, and as she advanced into the room she kept 
pouring it carefully from one hand into the other, in 
a little heap of links. Valentine looked very much 
ashamed of himself, and at last, when no one else spoke, 
Emily said, ‘ Well ? ’ 

‘He says I’m just suited to be a clergyman’s wife,’ 
said Liz simply ; and St. George started up — 

‘ Give me a kiss,’ he said, ‘ and don’t be a ridiculous 
little goose.’ 

Liz kissed her brother. He had evidently been quite 
light in his suspicions as to what her thoughts might 
be, for she then said, — ‘ I would rather not, you know, 
dear ; but if I don’t take him, I don’t believe you will 
ever get rid of me at all.’ Then she freed herself from 
him, and again pouring her chain into her palm, she 
27 nn 


626 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


Baid, — ‘ And yet I can’t help thinking that if I don’t 
take him, I shall be sorry for it afterwards. 

It was not easy to reply to such a speech as this ; but 
Emily took Liz up-stairs with her, and they prepared 
to walk to the station. The carriage was to go, but it 
would be empty, and as it was a sunny, pleasant after- 
noon, sister proposed that I should go a little way in it, 
and then get out and walk home. 

I knew very well who would be my companion ; but 
if he had not gone with me he would have stayed with 
me ; so I set forth with him, enjoyed the delightful air, 
and hoped I should not meet any one whom I knew ! 

‘ What could I do ? ’ he presently said, as if he meant 
to apologize. ‘I was obliged to speak, you were so 
unconscious. Any other woman would have discov- 
ered that open secret long ago.’ 

‘I thought she was a Londoner: you said to me that 
you “ fell into that pit ” when in London.’ 

‘ So I did : when I took Tom away, you know, and, 
as you said to Valentine, ^‘deprived you of your home^ 
because I could not he at the trouble of amusing him 
here^ I forgave you for something or other, perhaps it 
was for that ; an easy thing to forgive, as it arose from 
ignorance, and Valentine did not tell me your idea till 
it was too late for me to trust myself with any justifica- 
tion. — Do you see that tree stump ? ’ 

‘ Yes, certainly.’ 

‘ On it the girl was sitting, — Clara, you know, now 
his wife.’ 

‘ I never knew she came here.’ 

‘ She followed him, and I thought his only chance lay 
in my taking him ofi* without her knowledge. He was 
watched, and could not get a letter to her before he 
(eft. He counted, no doubt, on writing from London. 
X was beforehand with him. I wrote out a telegram 
ready before we started, telling her to come to town by 
the very next train. I knew that was a slow train, and 
would not get in till the middle of the night. Graham 
chancing to lay down his cigar-case soon after we 
•tarted, I threw it furtively out of the window, and my 


OFF THE 8KELLI0S. 


627 


own, too When we hunted we naturally could not 
find them. He got out as soon as he could to buy 
cigars, and I to send my telegram. Graham was sulky 
that night — no wonder ! He openly wrote a letter, 
and gave it to the waiter at the hotel in my presence. 
I argued afterwards, and reasoned with him. 

‘We went out. Acis and Galatea was given. We 
took tickets, and he endured the music, and afterwards 
retired early. His room was next to our sitting-room. 
I sat up over the fire waiting till it was time to go and 
meet this train. I had another hour on my hands, and 
as I did not like to draw his attention, in case of his 
being still awake, to the fact of my sitting up, I had 
turned down the lamp, and let the fire get low. It 
was not strange therefore that I began to doze, and 
shortly to dream. I thought I saw my mother. I 
have no recollections of her that do not present her as 
healthful, joyous, and lovely. She died from the eflTects 
of an accident when she was about forty-four years of 
age. I knew it was my mother, but I did not see hei 
face. She stood with her back to me, and she seemed 
to be leaning over some one who sat in an easy-chair 
before the fire. A girl I thought it was, and my 
mother had gathered some of her long fair hair into 
her hand, and was plaiting it for her. I had seen her 
do this for my sisters when they sat on a sea-beach, 
having dried their hair after bathing, by leaving it loose 
in the wind. But as she went on, and the braid got 
longer, she moved aside. I saw the girl’s face. It was 
yours ! You took my mother’s attention and eafessea 
very quietly. 

‘I have no other incident to relate to you — no 
account to give of what so suddenly came upon me, 
but only this dream. 

‘I saw my mother’s white hand pass softly over 
your shining young head ; and then as I looked at you 
again, I found to my astonishment that I loved you j 
that you were my hope and my fate. 

‘I woke instantly and congratulated myself with 
strange elation of heart Yes, I did. You were so 


628 


OFF TEE SKELLI08. 


Toung, I thought you would be sure to come to me. I 
had been delighted with you ever since the day when 
you had come to Wigfield, and I had felt a very tender 
interest about you before. I had left the station in the 
morning a free man ; I got back to it in the middle of 
the night as deeply in love as a man can be who loves 
with scarcely any fear as to the success of his suit. Do 
you wonder at me ? ’ 

‘Yes; and at poor Tom, who would not in the end 
let himself be saved.’ 

‘No. I got to the station just in time, and when 
Clara saw who met her, I think she felt she was mas- 
tered. I told her there was no chance for her; that 
Mr. Graham was not aware of her coming — would 
soon be on board the yacht. I told her I knew she 
was not a woman of character. “ No, sir,” she 
answered, poor girl ! “ But,” I said, “ your word, for 

anything I know, is to be depended on. Shall I trust 
you?” “You will be a fool,” she answered, “if you 
do.” — Perhaps you think that was an unsatisfactory 
answer ? ’ 

‘Yes, and very impertinent.’ 

‘I liked it. She might have answered, “Yes, sir.” 
“ Well,” I said, “ I shall stand here for five minutes and 
read the paper. I am inclined to think I shall trust 
you.” I looked at her once ; her black eyes were flash- 
ing, hard and defiant. I went on reading. When I 
looked again I saw that it would do. “ I am going to 
trust you,” I remarked. “Very well, sir,” she answered, 
with great reluctance. “ I am going to give you four 
hundred pounds, and you are going to promise me sol- 
emnly that you will neither go within ten miles of 
Southampton for two full years, nor communicate with 
Mr. Graham all that time, in any way whatever.” I 
thought two full years and four hundred pounds would 
surely see her married, and cure him of such a disas- 
trous infatuation. “ Two full years ; that’s a long 
time,” was all the answer. I only wished I had dared 
to propose a yet longer ; and presently, with a sulky 
air, she said, “I’ll take three hundred, and say eight* 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


629 


een mouths.” So I was obliged to accept the promise, 
and she gave it so grudgingly that I was sure she 
meant to keep it ; which she did. 

‘ I got back. Graham discovered nothing. I began 
to feel a deep longing to get home again ; but 1 knew 
Graham would not stir till he had discovered Clara’s 
absence from the cottage where she had lodged. He 
telegraphed when she did not answer his letter, and 
found this out. Then, sullen and miserable, and deaf 
to my request that he would go back to Wigfield, he 
insisted on our running down to Southampton. And 
there to my joy he could not find her, she was actually 
keeping faith with me. 

‘ W' e stayed there two days ; then your uncle stood 
in, and we went on board the yacht. I was very desir- 
ous to let him know the state of affairs, and also to ask 
a favor of him, and get away home. 

‘ That very afternoon, as we sat in the chief cabin 
at dinner, it suddenly seemed to occur to Graham that 
I must have had something to do with his discomfiture. 
And as he reflected he began to say very galling things 
to me, which I tried to pass ofi*; and this attracted 
your uncle’s attention; and made Graham more sure 
of his ground. But I had two reasons, beyond the 
ordinary ones, for commanding my temper : first, I felt 
he had guessed the truth ; and next, 1 saw that he was 
drinking a good deal of wine. We never mentioned 
Clara,’ 

Here the carriage stopped, and, I was told, by Mrs. 
Henfrey’s orders. She thought I should not be able to 
walk farther than this point was from home. So we 
went back through the wood. All the snow was gone, 
a delightful south-west wind was moving among the 
trees ; but I hardly cared to look about me, I wanted 
to hear the end of this, to me, strange story, and I soon 
brought St. George to speak of Tom again. 

‘After dinner he took more wine, got first heated, 
then insolent. The old man sat between us, aware 
that something was wrong, and waiting to find out 
what it was. At last Graham informed him that “ old 


630 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


Mortimfer’s ” reason for asking you down was, that we 
knew you would have a large fortune, and I wanted 
to secure it for myself. Then I flamed out. I might 
have known this was only said to enrage me, and throw 
me off my guard, till he could accuse me of things more 
real; but I had not the sense to keep my temper, and 
we began to storm at one another, the old man filling 
Tom’s glass as fast as he emptied it, and listening to 
his now incoherent bluster with quiet gravity. We 
had both risen by this time. Graham showed a gi-eat 
wish to get at and taking your uncle by the arm 
they began to sway about together, the old man keep- 
ing between us, and pushing me towards the door, till 
we reached it. By that time I had said what trenchant 
words had been burning in me for utterance, and when 
he told me to go into the after cabin till he came to 
me I reached it in a high state of indignation, while ho 
kept Graham where he was. 

‘ I felt as if I had never been in such a passion in my 
life ; it was something new to be accused of meanness 
and mercenary hypocrisy, <fcc., &c. ; and I sat down 
glowing with wrath, and yet I felt almost directly that 
my position was perfectly ridiculous, for this had really 
come upon me in consequence of my interference about 
Clara, and was meant to punish me for that, and for 

nothing else There is a very pretty looking- 

glass in your cabin ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ Draped about with lace and delicate with all sorts 
of feminine surroundings ? I saw a small work-basket, 
too, hanging up by a hook, — a graceful little thing. 
And various other beautiful possessions of yours were 
evident all about me. 

‘ They made me tremble when I saw them with a 
great longing to get home again ; and I sat brooding 
over my newly-waked love till your uncle came in 
again. “Now then,” he exclaimed, “Tom’s drunk, — a 
very little wine gets into his head. Out with it all, 
man ! What does it mean ?” So I told him.’ 

‘ And he thanked you, of course ? ’ 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS, 


631 


‘Yes; and I felt how hard Graham had made it to 
mention you. But he went on, — “ And as to my little 
girl, I suppose that’s all moonshine?” I soon un- 
deceived him. I wonder what you will think if I tell 
you his answer.’ 

‘ I should like to hear it.’ 

‘Perhaps I may tell it you then; it Avill do me 
neither good nor harm ; for if it marks his approval, 
which is something in my favor, it links a certain 
advantage to it, and advantages, as I plainly percei^ e, 
and as you have said, are not what reconcile you to 
things. He said, “ I shall give my little girl eight thou- 
sand pounds when she marries ; but if you can get her, 
I will leave her thirty thousand more.” ’ 

I had no reply to make to this speech, and he pres- 
ently went on, ‘ In an hour or two I went on deck, and 
to my amazement we were out of sight of land. 
“ O yes,” Brand said, “ master was running down to 
Bordeaux about some wine.” We soon ran down, but 
oh the beating up! Such weather! We were sixteen 
days on that passage beating about the Channel. Gra- 
ham and I were soon reconciled, and he never asked me 
one question. Your uncle was very kind; we suited 
one another well enough. I almost always get on com- 
fortably with an old man. We landed at last, but I 
did not come home unwarned. Letters from my step- 
father and from sister were waiting for me at Mr. 
Rollin’s hotel. They confirmed my worst fears when I 
got home. Within a month I went back to the old 
!nan, reported my failure, and he called me a fool for 
my pains.* 

The carriage coming after us loaded with Walkers! 
Lou got out and walked home with us, and Emily held 
up her boy to the window. I was very tired when we 
reachvi the house, and was received by the new-comers 
with a certain distinction which was certainly owing 
to my somewhat mortifying circumstances. The two 
shabby little captains soon went away to smoke with 
V alentine, and the ladies all streamed up-stairs together 
into the nursery to introduce little Fred to Frances and 


632 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


Nannette. All their toys were set out; but little Free!, 
overpowered by the number of strangers, burst into a 
fit of crying, and fought his aunts, and scowled at the 
children, till we all retired. 

The Crayshaws were to appear soon, and I was 
ordered by Emily to lie on my sofa till it was time to 
dress for dinner, that I might not look tired and pale. 
I was not sorry to obey, for the walk had fatigued me. 
Emily and Lou came in course of time, and chose 
among my beautiful dresses what I should wear. They 
fixed on a silk dress that looked yellowish by daylight, 
but which at night became a cream- like white. I 
thought it would not suit me, but was not sorry for 
that, because Valentine had said when alone with me 
that day that ‘ I was not acting by him in the generous 
way he could have hoped,’ and I made out, not without 
some trouble, that he thought I was trying to attract 
him again by my array ! 

So I let the cream-colored gown go on, and the 
faintly-tinged rose with it; then going up to the glass, 
secretly hoped Valentine would not think it as becom- 
ing as I did. 

My heart trembled a little when I entered the draw- 
ing-room, and a very pretty delicate young woman met 
me with, ‘ Is this the rose of England then — the white 
rose ? I have so much wished to see her.’ 

Crayshaw was there also, looking handsomer than 
ever, as I had time to observe when, after having 
spoken to me, he sat down between Nannette and 
Frances, and tried to make them believe that they 
remembered him. But, as if there was to be no end to 
the children, the baby Crayshaw was shortly announced, 
and being forthwith taken from his nurse by Valentine, 
began to crow and make himself agreeable, seizing Val- 
entine by the nose, and then trying to suck the buttons 
of his coat. Crayshaw looked on, surprised at Valen- 
tine’s audacity in daring to take a baby ; but desiring, 
as it seemed, to show himself a valiant man, he pres- 
ently received his son and heir himself, and holding 
him rather tightly, made an effort to appear at his ease. 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


633 


St. George, not at all taken in by it, proposed to take 
the little thing himself, but Mr. Crayshaw was quite 
above that. What another man could do he would 
dare, and he held his boy, while Giles tickled the small 
nose with a feather ; and the little creature, after 
rubbing it with his dimpled fist, sneezed in the most 
natural manner possible. 

That was the strangest evening I ever spent. Our 
host was changed back again to the man of my earlier 
recollections. Valentine, having no lady to talk to, was 
sullen and discomfited ; he looked at me every now and 
then with an air of reproof which I hoped would not 
be so evident to other eyes as to mine. In the mean 
time, Mrs. Crayshaw and Emily, having merely ex- 
changed glances, understood each other perfectly, and 
Mrs. Crayshaw soon made her husband understand too ; 
so that as I sat by him and he talked of the old days 
and the yacht, I felt at once that they supposed Mr. 
Brandon to be my lover, — that they approved, and 
without, saying one single word they would convey 
their thought to him, and even manage to congratulate 
him. 

Little Dick and Liz, accustomed to be often together, 
had now suddenly discovered that they had nothing to 
talk about. And the two young boys, neither of them 
more than thirteen, discoursed with perfect gravity on 
the institutions of their country, 

I was thankful when we got up-stairs ; but as I sat 
by Emily, and she comforted and rallied and tried to 
make me feel at ease, Lou said, in passing us, ‘The 
Qubit will want to sing to-night.’ 

‘Why shouldn’t he?’ answered Emily; ‘it won’t 
hurt him.’ 

‘ He will ask Dorothea to play for him.’ 

‘ Tell him beforehand then,’ said Emily to me, ‘ that 
you will not do it.’ 

Valentine soon came up, — sat beside me. ‘How 
lovely you look, D. dear,’ he said, ‘ and what a shame it 
ab is!’ 

‘If you address me again in that manner, I shall cab 
27 * 


634 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


you Mr. Mortimer; and that reminds me I cannot play 
for you to-night, so don’t ask me.’ 

Valentine replied that I was very unkind, — very 
disagreeable, and I knew he liked to sing, and could 
always sing, even if he could hardly speak, and 1 knew 
also that none of them could accompany him properly. 

‘ Have you written to Lucy to-day ’ I inquired. 

‘You are always asking me that ; of course I have.’ 

At this moment the rest of the party came up. I 
hoped they would not ask St. George to sing, being 
sure that if they did I should be in request to play for 
him. I remembered how I had told him to sing to liis 
Margarita, and I felt that he was sure to remember it 
•also. 

They did ask him to sing; he, as I had expected, 
came up to me. ‘ D. is so tired, she says she cannot 
play to-night,’ said Valentine. 

‘You have asked her?’ exclaimed Giles, with an air 
of astonishment and reproof, but in a low voice. 

‘Yes,’ said Valentine, quite surprised. . 

‘I hope I shall never hear of your taking such a 
liberty again,’ said Giles, in a still lower tone. Then he 
went on to me, ‘ I am almost afraid it will excite remark 
if you do not play once for me;’ and I, nervous and 
thinking more of Valentine than of him, replied, ‘I 
should not think of declining, of course.^ 

‘ Because 1 am your host ? ’ he asked, as we went to 
the piano. 

I made no answer. That was what I had meant. 
But 1 soon knew that I had hurt him, without appeas- 
ing Valentine, who went and sulked openly, in a place 
by himself. And I began to feel so much that I had 
taken the wrong side, that it made me very conscious 
how little my host cared to sing. He lost his place, and 
was nervous ; he looked dispiiited, and I was so vexed 
with myself that when the song was over I did not 
rise, but presently obliged myself to say to him, ‘ That 
song went badly ; I must play you a second to atone 
for the first.’ 

‘ Not as my guest then,’ he whispered. 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS. 


685 


•No, as your friend, — and to atone.’ 

So now it was right with St. George, but it was all 
the more wrong with Valentine; and it got worse, 
because the Cubit was very anxious to sing himself, and 
everybody else wanted to hear St. George, and also, as 
I could not but know, it amused and pleased them to 
see me playing for him. I played four times, and each 
time he told me the story more and more plainly, cany- 
ing out my own advice to him to the letter, and mak- 
ing me very nervous lest others, including Valentine 
should feel and perceive what he was doing. 

‘ I knew you would not let me sing any more,’ he 
said as 1 closed the book ; ‘ but at least you are my 
Margarita, my pearl — I was only telling you so,’ — 

‘ I am afraid you are telling everybody else.’ 
‘Delightful! Brandon,’ said Mr. Grayshaw, coming 
up with grave audacity. ‘ What a pity Miss Graham i» 
nut always here to accompany you ! ’ 

1 went to bed that night to be haunted by a vision 
of Valentine’s displeased face, and the ghost of St. 
George’s sigh when I began to play for him. 

I did not know what to do; but that was Wednes- 
day. The old doctor had paid me his last visit and 
said I might travel on Saturday, if I pleased, I 
thought I had better do it, if they would let me, for I 
could not please them all, and 1 hardly knew yet which 
I most wished to please, or rather not to displease. 

I knew the next morning. Mrs. Grayshaw, always 
beautifully dressed, came down, and we were all arrayed, 
as is the way with women, so as not to be outdone in 
taste if we could help it. The unlucky blue dress, 
which Giles had declared it was dangerous to look at, 
did a great deal of mischief that morning. He looked 
at it so often, that Valentine’s attention was attracted, 
and I saw on his face not only that he did not like this, 
but even the dawn of a curious kind of dismay. 

‘Mrs. Grayshaw’s nurse has been asking for plate 
powder,’ said Liz, coming into the morning-room about 
eleven o’clock, — ‘pink plate powder. What can she 
want with it ? She and Mrs. Grayshaw are boxed up 
together ’ 


636 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


‘ Some jewels are to be cleaned perhaps,’ said Mrs. 
Henfrey. 

I soon discovered what they had wanted with it, 
St. George and Mr. Crayshaw were walking about the 
garden together, and Smokey beside them. When the 
latter came in, he presently went up-stairs, and tlien 
they came down together. True to the customs of his 
nation, Mr. Crayshaw was always grave and melancholy 
when saying anything humorous, much more so than at 
other times, and his making us frequently laugh, as he 
had done since he came, had been rather a relief, for 
Valentine was far too crest-fallen to joke at all, and SU 
George hardly seemed inclined for laughter. 

When I saw Mr. Crayshaw come in with more than 
usual gravity, I was therefore inclined to suppose that 
he had something droll to say, especially as Mrs. Cray- 
shaw followed with laughter in her eyes. I was soon 
undeceived. She produced a pretty little gold chain 
with a curious locket hanging to it, — a small locket in 
the shape of a heart. She and her husband hoped I 
would accept it. The heart was of wood, — a little 
piece of some hard dark American wood, highly pol- 
ished ; a piece, she said, of one of the planks out of 
which they had made the raft. Of course I accepted 
it. She put it round my neck. Would I always wear 
it? 1 promised. It was a pretty little thing with a 
gold rim, but it would not open: I tried it. 

‘ But it will open,’ she presently said ; ‘ the inside’s 
the best part of it. George, go and find the key.’ 

George hesitated. ‘ Some other time,’ he said ; but 
after various declarations on her part that she was sure 
I should forget to wear it, and protestations on mine 
that I would not, the key was at last fetched — a 
minute gold key. 

‘What’s in it has a certain value,’ said Mrs. Cray- 
shaw ; ‘ but it’s not a precious stone — not a stone at 
all.’ 

• W ell, no,’ said Mr. Crayshaw, ‘ it’s what, here, they 
sometimes call a hrick^ 

Emily immediately pricked up her head; nobody 
else was present but sister. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS, 


6.37 


‘ It’s British,’ he went on ; — ‘I wish I could get this 
open ; — it’s altogether British, but it’s what we term 
true griV 

‘ If you’ll give it me,’ I exclaimed, suddenly suspi- 
cious, ‘ and give me the key. I’ll open it when I have an 
opportunity.’ 

‘ Ah, well, he went on, still poking at the lock, ‘ God 
never made anything better worth having. But you 
must open it and look at it pretty often, for there are 
some things that cannot live if they are always kept in 
the dark. There ! ’ 

Open at last. 

‘ Mrs. Crayshaw ? ’ he said. 

‘ Yes, George.’ 

‘ I’ll give you back the key, because this will want 
opening often.’ 

St. George’s face, of course; the portrait we had 
taken ourselves — ‘ He sweetly dreameth.’ The walls 
of some of the bedrooms were half covered with photo- 
graphs ; it was no difficult matter to get one. 

‘Now, what do you think of it?’ he went on, with 
the greatest gravity, holding it before me. 

Neither Emily nor Mrs. Henfrey lifted up her face 
at all. 

I looked. 

‘It’s not very often,’ he went on, with melancholy 
gravity, ‘ that any one has a chance of such a posses- 
sion. Mrs. Crayshaw never had.’ 

‘Did she ever tell you so?’ asked Mrs. Crayshaw, 
and he smiled. 

‘ Look at it again,’ he said. 

I did. 

‘ W ell, now, you’ll tell me what you think of it.’ 

I felt amazed at his still and gentle audacity ; and 
he went on, ‘There’s a certain beauty in it, and a good 
deal of power, and there’s a brooding tenderness in the 
eyes. There are some people, however, in this world, 
that have never yet had any one thing that they most 
wanted.’ 

Still 1 could find nothing to say. 


688 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


‘It’s a fine thing,’ he observed in a dispassionate 
tone, ‘ to have it in our power to enrich a life — to give 
enough, and all that was lacking.’ 

I believe I answered, ‘Yes.’ 

‘ But,’ he went on, ‘ some people are a long time 
before they can believe that is their case ; and when at 
last they have learned to believe it, I have known some 
that spent so long thinking about it, that all the grace 
of the gift, — indeed the opportunity of making it, alto- 
gether went by.’ 

Utterly deceived! perfectly wrong ! He knew noth- 
ing about me and Valentine, as was evident. 

Just the same party at dinner that night. Valentine 
having been shamefully complimentary to me, I was 
bent on not having to play for him ; but he was deter- 
mined to sing, and he so managed matters that I was 
obliged to do it once. Emily and Mrs. Crayshaw, how- 
ever, were far too clever to let that sort of thing go on. 
St. George was soon put in his place, by particular 
desire of his guests, and I went on playing for him 
sometime, not without a certain contentment, for I 
knew that as long as I was so occupied they would 
hardly even look at me. 

I wanted Valentine to be displeased, and he remained 
so all that evening ; but the next morning, to my dis- 
may, as I sat writing up-stairs in the drawing-room, — 
writing to Mr. Mompesson to come on Saturday and 
fetch me, he came in. I observed that he had put on 
his pious air, and I felt dreadfully disconcerted when he 
said seriously that he wanted to speak to me ; he had 
something of importance to say. 

He was so deteriorated, ever since he had come 
home, that I should hardly have known him for the 
frank-hearted fellow I used to be so attached to. 

‘No,’ I answered; ‘I would rather not hear it, Val- 
entine.’ 

‘ But,’ he continued, ‘ I feel it to be my duty to warn 
you of this, because it would disturb you very much, I 
know, if it occurred.’. 

This not being in the least like anything 1 could 


OFF THE 6KELLI0S. 


639 


have anticipated, curiosity triumphed, and I went and 
aat on a sofa near him. ‘It’s not about myself,’ he 
went on; and I decided to hear it. 

‘It’s — it’s about St. George;’ and, as he spoke, lean- 
ing on the chimney-piece, he took up a small china 
vase, and out of mere embarrassment because his hand 
trembled, he let it slip, and it fell into the fender, and 
smashed itself into twenty pieces. 

A curious sort of shame in his face, and this awk- 
wardness, made me see that he really had something 
important to say, and I thought it could not well be 
anything unworthy because it concerned his brother. 

He began — 

‘You have been so generous, and so gentle, since I 
came home, and somehow, D. dear, you are so much 
handsomer than I expected, that you have more than 
once — I do not deny it — made me waver in my alle- 
giance to Lucy ; hut — ’ 

‘ No more of this ! ’ I exclaimed ; ‘ if you are unmanly 
enough to feel so, you would not be ridiculous enough 
to say it, if you knew what it makes me think of you.’ 

‘That,’ he replied, ‘was only by way of opening. 
You need not be so warm. I’m coming to St. George, 
and you know he is a very clever fellow.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ My father used to hope that some day he would get 
into Parliament and distinguish himself.’ 

‘Well, Valentine? — this is an odd beginning.’ 

‘ I shouldn’t like to stand in his light,’ said the Cubit, 
looking almost sheepish ; ‘ I shouldn’t like to think that 
what I’ve done would be any disadvantage to him.’ 

I wondered what he was thinking of now, and 
more when he said — 

‘ Giles has never had any attachment, you know — 
any particular attachment, as I have.’ 

‘ Indeed.’ 

‘ Why, of course,’ he continued, arguing partly with 
himself and partly with me, ‘if he had I must have 
known it. He’s always been so jolly too, so sure things 
would come right, and so disgusted if a fellow ven- 


640 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


tured to be sentimental. A man who finds his pleasure 
in adventure, in knocking about the world, and public 
speaking, and politics, passes over domestic matters 
lightly. Love, so important to some men, and to most 
women, he could soon tread down and push away even 
if it came — ’ 

‘ Indeed.’ 

‘You are curt this morning.’ 

‘ Because you made me suppose you really had some- 
thing important to say, and now you are merely occu- 
pying the time with a dissertation on your brother’s 
character.’ 

‘ But that’s what I want to say — he — in spite of all 
that, he has a vein of chivalry in his thoughts about 
women, which sways him so much that I believe — 
yes, I almost believe — if he thought any one — or in- 
deed I — was what I wanted to tell you — ’ 

‘ Do go on, Y alentine ; what can it be ? ’ 

‘ I believe if he thought my having thrown you by, 
— and I’m sure I beg your pardon, — I believe he has 
such a chivalrous nature, that, rather than such a thing 
should be any disadvantage to you, he would propose 
to marry you himself.’ 

For the moment I felt as if Valentine’s idea of what 
St. George might do was more noble than what he had 
done. ‘ Are you in earnest ? ’ I exclaimed ; ‘ do you 
mean this ? Does it at all occur to you to consider 
what a noble generous nature you are imputing to 
him ? ’ and he blushed and looked so sheepish, that I 
was impelled to go on : ‘You need not suppose, how-r 
ever, that any such disadvantage will accrue to me. I 
do not see that your fault reflects itself upon me in any 
way whatever.’ 

Valentine’s face shocked me so then, both for old 
affection’s sake, and from present deterioration, that I 
burst into tears, for I was so ashamed of him — it 
seemed so plain from his manner that he knew he was 
acting hypocritically. 

‘ And so,’ he went blundering on, ‘ as I felt that after 
all you have a constant nature, not affected by my in- 


OFF THE SKELL1G8, 


641 


constancy (which I could not help) I felt that it was 
my duty to warn you, so that you might not be an- 
noyed by an offer that naturally would hurt you — 
your sense of what was due to yourself ; for, as you 
have said, this has been no disadvantage to you ; and I 
am sure you would never wish to be a disadvantage to 
him, poor fellow!’ 

‘ Stop 1 ’ I burst out as soon as I could speak ; ‘ I can’t 
bear you to make me despise you so ! ’ 

‘ What I ’ he answered, not able to fire up in the 
least, but more than ever crest-fallen and ashamed of 
himself, ‘ can you really think, D. — do you really sup- 
pose that I was tiying to keep you mine, in case I 
should fail with Lucy ? ’ 

‘ If you are not,’ I replied, crying heartily, — ‘ if such 
a thought never entered your head, say so like a gen- 
tleman, — like a man, and I will believe you.’ 

He blustered a little, and tried to get off with some 
protestations as to the high respect he felt for me, but 
he could not say what I had asked of him ; and when 
I inquired how he could presume to talk to me of con- 
stancy, he, very cross, and very much out of counte- 
nance too, replied, that he only w^anted me to be warned 
in time. 

‘You are determined to drive me out of his house,’ I 
exclaimed ; ‘ and the very first day that I can, you may 
depend on it I shall go.’ 

‘ He certainly will make you an offer,’ cried V alen- 
line. ‘But perhaps,’ he added, with a sudden fiash of 
astonishment, which probably arose from some new re- 
dection on what Giles had looked or said, — ‘ perhaps 
he has done that already.’ 

‘No,’ I answered, — sure for once of what he was, 
and what the other was not, — ‘he is very good, and 
very noble, but this he has not done. If he had, it 
would be no affair of yours.’ 

‘Then he will,’ said Valentine angrily, ‘I know he 
will ; ’ and I, deciding then and there what should be 
and what must be if he did, replied, — 

‘ Then, nr he does, I shall accept him.’ 

o 


6415 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


I had never felt so astonished hi my life, and it wan 
at myself. 

And I meant it all too; but it was scarcely spoken 
when, drying away the tears from my face, I beheld 
Mrs. Crayshaw and Giles advancing into the room, and 
talking as they came. 

One instant, and less, was enough to show her Valen- 
tine’s confusion and my tears, and without changing 
her voice, she seemed to go on as with a sudden thought. 
‘ But you must let me go and see my baby first ; ? and 
so she turned, and quietly leaving the room she shut 
the door behind her, while Giles, advancing to the sofa, 
laid his hand on the high end of it, and exclaimed, 
with considerable indignation, — ‘This is the second 
time you have ofiended in this way. What have you 
dared to say to Dorothea ? ’ 

Valentine did not answer a single word; but I knew 
I had no power over him. When he did speak, he 
could say what he chose. 

But Giles I could do something with to prevent their 
quarrelling ; so I laid my hand down on his, and kept 
it there. 

He could not well move away then ; but in a high 
state of indignation he again demanded of Valentine 
how he had dared to annoy me. And the Oubit, 
instead of answering, looked at him, and while he 
looked his handsome face changed, till I thought I 
saw again the better, sweeter expression of his boy- 
hood. His good angel, perhaps, was pleading with 
him; and when Giles broke out into invectives, and 
said several angry and bitter things, he not only could 
not answer, but a kind of joy appeared in his face, and 
then there came the frank beautiful blush that I had 
several times so much admired. 

He looked his brother full in the face, waiting till 
he should pause, and still leaning on the mantelpiece. 
And I, keeping my hand in its place, wondered how 
much of the truth had dawned on him, and wondered 
what he would say ; but when he did speak, oh how 
displeased I was! 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


643 


‘It’s only three months,’ he began, ‘since first I saw 
liucy, and we’ve kissed each other dozens and dozens 
of times — ’ 

‘ How dare you ! how dare you ! ’ exclaimed Giles, 
stung to the quick, and glowing with passionate indig- 
nation that almost seemed to choke him. ‘ What oVjject 
can you have in saying this to me, unless you know 
how 1 shall feel under it ? ’ 

I put my other hand to his, and with both of them 
held it gently in its place. I felt how wildly the pulse 
went. ‘Don’t quarrel,’ I entreated. ‘ Now, Valentine, 
say the rest of it.’ 

Valentine had been arrested by surprise. 

‘You have always been careless,’ Giles burst out. 
‘You have been heartless lately; but I have deserved 
better of you than that you should torment me in this 
way, and you know it. Do you think either that there 
is no one in the world whom I love better than myself, 
or that I will suffer any words from you that are meant, 
for the least disparagement of her ! ’ 

Whatever dawning suspicions may have been awak- 
ened in Valentine’s breast were so immensely over- 
justified by this outburst of complete betrayal, this 
absolute throwing away of reserve on the part of Giles, 
that for the moment he stood amazed. 

‘ Well, Valentine ? — well, Valentine ? ’ I repeated. 

‘Don’t be angry, old fellow,’ said Valentine, advanc- 
ing a step or two, and speaking with the gentle- 
ness they sometimes used to one another when either 
was irritated, — ‘ Don’t be angry, hear me out. That 
young lady’ (looking at me) — ‘ I am not to address 
her by the old name now, it seems, and I have not 
yet thought of another — I told you I had kissed 
Lucy many times — but I never kissed that young lady 
in my life, Giles — never once — never ! no, never.’ 

Giles heaved up a mighty sobbing sigh, — he was not 
master of the situation ; he had pinned his heart upon 
his sleeve at last, and for the moment it had seemed 
that this ‘ daw ’ had pecked at it ! 

Generous people, though they may be wholly on the 


644 


OFF THE 8KELLT08. 


right side of any quarrel, sometimes feel keenly any little 
wrong they may have done in the small details of it. 
Giles, trying to calm himself, presently said, ‘I beg 
your pardon.’ 

‘ What for ? ’ Valentine inquired. 

Giles was now rather holding my hand than I his. 

‘ What for ? ’ V alentine repeated. 

‘ I need not have been so angry ; and last night, it 
seems, I need not have been so hard upon you. I did 
not understand that was all — ’ 

‘Do you mean that I did not understand? That 
was not my fault, Giles, was it? But you are always 
BO reserved.’ 

Then, while Giles stood stockstill, trying to over- 
come his temper and his surprise, the Qubit came and 
sat down near and opposite to us. 

‘You shouldn’t have let me do this to you,’ he said 
gently, but almost reproachfully ; ‘ and perhaps it has 
been going on a long time — perhaps even my father 
knew of it.’ 

Then Giles making no answer, his eyes seemed to 
be opened more and more. ‘ Did he, D. ? ’ was his in- 
quiry. 

‘ I think so.’ 

‘You have been very generous to me,’ continued 
Valentine, becoming more and more his old self every 
instant. ‘ Curious,’ he went on, lifting up his face as 
if to think, — ‘very curious! You gave up to me all, 
— so that I might have married her and never have 
known. And yet nothing short of all would have 
given you back all as you have it now ; for,’ he con- 
tinued, with his own remarkable frankness, ‘it would 
not have been in human nature, Giles, to have neglected 
her, forgotten her, and thrown her b}, for another 
woman, if I had known that another man was waiting 
for her, even though that man had been you. No ; 1 
feel now that the least opposition would have kept me 
true. Ask him to forgive me, D.’ 

‘ I do not think he had anything to forgive you for 

VlUi TO-DAY ’ 


OFF TEE 8KELLI0S. 


645 


By this time they were both very hard put to it to 
preserve that mastery over emotion, or rather the ap- 
pearance of that absence of emotion, so dear to the 
])ride of an Englishman. 

It is astonishing in how short a time the most im- 
portant affairs can be transacted, and how little dignity 
there is in conversations on which depend the most 
important event in some of our lives. 

Set and sustained sentences there were none then, 
only a great outbreak, a sudden subduing of it, a cer- 
tain thing discovered, a little broken evidence of affec- 
tion, — all the rest taken for granted; then the grasp 
of two hands, and the younger of the party turned 
round half-choked, and ‘ bolted.’ 

I would fain call his exit by a grander name, if I 
could with the least approval of my conscience ; but if 
men will be so very much ashamed of showing their 
feelings even to their own brothers, they must either 
run away, or be comforted, as I endeavored to comfort 
Giles, by putting my cheek down also on hi? hand and 
kissing it. 


«46 


OFF TEE 8KELLI0B. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

T he next day the Crayshaws departed, and when 
St. George found I had arranged to be fetched 
away on Saturday, he was at first unreasonably vexed. 

My situation, however, had been eminently uncom- 
fortable almost ever since Valentine’s return; now it 
was comical besides. 

The first time I met him after the scene in the draw- 
ing-room, he threw himself into a chair and exhausted 
himself with laughter. ‘Xo,’ he exclaimed; ‘I never 
hoped to see this day ! There is no misfortune in this 
world that I could not be consoled for, by the fun of 
seeing Giles make a mufi* of himself — Giles in love ! ’ 

It never was of the slightest use being angry with 
Valentine, but I felt that to remain under his eyes any 
longer was quite impossible. 

In the afternoon came what Valentine had predicted. 
V'hen Giles found I would go, he said that to offer his 
hand so soon was, he felt, to give himself no chance of 
its being accepted. I replied that he was right, and 
that I could not think of such matters at present. 
Whereupon he immediately did make an offer in set 
tei-ms, giving much the same reasons for this that Val- 
entine had mentioned. I did decline it. This did not 
seem to disturb him at all. He said he meant to tell 
Dick k Court, and perhaps Miss Braithwaite, as a great 
secret, that he had been refused, and then it would 
become known in the neighborhood. He believed he 
must have made this proposal even if he had not loved 
me. 

‘And now,’ he went on, ‘I ask you, as the greatest 
favor possible, to reflect, seriously, on the many disad- 


OFF TEE 8KELLI08. 


647 


vantages of the marriage that I hope one day to pro- 
pose to you again.’ 

‘ The disadvantages ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; as you remarked yourself, the disadvantages 
are sometimes what reconcile. (They satisfy, I sup- 
pose, the craving for self-sacrifice.) I thought it was 
very sweet of you.’ 

‘You have many singular thoughts! But I had bet- 
ter hear the disadvantages.’ 

‘There’s my temper, — I am afraid my temper is 
sometimes rather stormy.’ 

‘ Is it ? I shall not allow you to call that a disad- 
vantage — not an attractive one at least. I do not like 
a man to be so tame that he cannot fire up on any ooca^ 
sion whatever.’ 

‘ Then I am so ugly.’ 

‘ You don’t think so yourself.’ 

‘ Some allowance must be made for the self-conceit 
of man.’ 

‘ And nobody else does.’ 

‘ That shows their bad taste.’ 

‘ And I don’t.’ 

‘You don’t! I understood that you did, and I have 
been hideously ugly ever since.’ 

‘ All this is because I once said that portrait of you 
was flattered.’ 

‘ Yes, that blue-eyed muflE^ as Emily called it. No- 
body but the dear old man could bear the sight of it.’ 

‘ If you cannot think of any better disadvantages 1 han 
these, — ’ 

‘You will be obliged to point them out yourself? 
But I can. There is my having no profession.’ 

‘That is one, I confess. I wonder how it came to pass.’ 

‘ It came first from my mother and Mr. Mortimer 
being so desirous that I should take orders. I did not 
feel that “ call ” which the English office makes indis- 
pensable, and I knew very well that my mind was too 
active to rest satisfied in the steady fixed routine of a 
clergyman’s life, with little chance of roving. So they 
sent me to travel, while, as they thought, I made up my 


648 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


mind. Then it came, secondly, from my having, at 
soon as I was of age, about eight hundred pounds a 
year, and discovering that if my time was given in 
addition to that money, and I bought bits of land hero 
and there, I could help people over to them. As long 
as I remained unmarried, I expected to make a regular 
occupation of that.’ 

‘ Surety you cannot have settled all those people that 1 
know of with eight hundred a year! How little my un- 
cle has effected in the world with almost seven thousand.’ 

‘ Some few things that I have written have brought 
in money also ; but while Mr. Mortimer lived I had no 
more income. Now it is about doubled.’ 

‘ Is it too late then to have some regular occupation 
or profession ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not ; the thing is half-arranged already. 
I found I must have regular work, when coming home 
after rushing about the world on purpose to forget you, 
I thought I had managed to do it to a great degree, 
and was undeceived by being with you for a few days. 
You are afraid of cows, you know, — cows with long 
horns. I was despicably near betraying myself when 
I had to remain and take care of you then ! If I had 
— How strange it was of Valentine to say those words 
to me yesterday ! — I think they were true.’ 

I felt that they had been true : it was security that 
had made him neglectful; and this he never would 
have had, had he known of his formidable rival. 

Giles went on, — ‘ Sometimes I wonder what became 
of the ring I gave you.’ 

‘It is at the bottom of the sea. I told Valentine 
that you had given me a ring for a remembrance when 
first we were acquainted. I thought also that he told 
you everything. So when we were engaged, I wl died 
him to know this that he might think nothing of it, and 
you that you might not think I carelessly ::eglected to 
wear it.’ 

‘ At the bottom of the sea, is it?’ 

‘Yes. We lay at anchor in a lovely little cove, and 
they were taking in water. I was leaning ovei the 


OFF THE 8KELLIQ8. 


649 


bulwarks looking at the superb pale cliffs like shafts of 
cinnamon, and at the clear blue water, so deep and yet 
showing the wonderful sea flowers, the pink and orange 
anemones, spreading below. I had on a chain and a 
locket hanging to it, with a little piece of my mother's 
hair within, and that ring. And as I looked down and 
down, and saw the swaying of the long leaves of dulse, 
the chain slipped fl'om my neck, flashed like a gold 
snake into the water, and seemed to eddy down under 
layers of the dulse. The people spent two days in 
ti-ying to find it. Such wonderful creatures and plants 
and shells came up by drags and in buckets, but not my 
locket and my ring. 'No wonder, for it was below the 
tide line, and the water was forty feet deep. This was 
on the coast of South America. It was the only morsel 
of our mother’s hair that we had. Tom made a dot on 
the chart to show the exact latitude and longitude where 
these treasures went down.’ 

‘Valentine never told me that.’ 

I was working in the morning room while we talked 
thus. He presently began to speak of the Mompessons; 
two or three tears had dropped on my band, for his 
manner so gentle and easy, and his face so full of hope 
and happiness, touched me more now than any sorrow 
of my own. But he loved far too much. I could not 
answer this love, and I wanted — I knew I wanted to 
get away from him and rest. 

I could not say anything so unkind, but I did say 
how much I wanted Tom, and asked him to try if he 
could not be a brother to me. 

He answered, ‘We have caused you nothing but mis- 
ery, both Valentine and I.’ 

‘ Have you ? ’ 

‘ But you do not want to forget ? ’ 

‘No; and if I would, I could forget nothing.’ 

‘For the sake of which brother, then, Dorothea, are 
you content to remember the other ? ’ 

‘ I am not so ungrateful as you think, nor so undis- 
ceming. I am not willing to forget you on any termi» 
— on any terms whatever.’ 

28 


650 


OFF THE 8KELLIG8. 


* If that be so,’ he answered, ‘ I will venture to ask 
you one question more : Have you any wish that you 
could care more for me ? should you be glad to love me 
if you could ? ’ 

Perhaps that was a singular question to ask; but, 
however that may be, it was a question that I found 
suitable, and to which I could answer frankly, ‘Yes.’ 

‘ Then,’ he answered gravely and gently, ‘ I will teach 
you to love me, my sweet, if you will let me.’ 

Our circumstances were most peculiar. I felt it, and 
was never equal to the making of philosophical reflec- 
tions ; I am not equal to that sort of thing now ; but I 
know that when I heard those words, I was exceedingly 
glad — very much comforted. I saw no evidence of 
over self-esteem in them, nothing but a confidence not 
at all misplaced. 

Saturday came. I had a terror upon me of leave- 
taking ; not even the servants could I think of speaking 
to and shaking hands with, without alarm. As to Val- 
entine, it made me nervous to think what I could say 
to him. Emily found this out, and Giles knew it by 
instinct. Soon after breakfast they got me to put my 
out-of-doors dress on and step into the garden with 
them. A few primroses were in flower already and the 
snowdrops. When we had reached the wood, Emily 
kissed me and retired. Sister and Liz soon came up, 
stood talking a few minutes, then they also found occa- 
sion to kiss me, and went away. 

‘ We are not going back into the house any more,’ 
said Giles ; ‘ the carriage will come in about an hour to 
the corner of the wood — Emily in it.’ 

‘ Oh, how kind of you to think of this ! how consider- 
ate you all are ! ’ 

He brought me up the slope to that little one-roomed 
cottage where I had spent such a bitter morning. The 
sun was warm upon its small casement. I went in and 
saw again the wicker couch, and the white embers as 
we had left them. And then, just as Valentine had 
done long ago in the railway carriage, he asked me to 
give him a kissw I replied, ‘You promised to teach me 


OFF THE SKELLIOi^, 


651 


to love you. If I can learn, it will be time enough for 
that.’ Thereupon drawing nearer he immediately took 
me in his arms and kissed me on the lips and cheeks. 
The fii’vSt sensation of astonishment over, I released my- 
self from him (as soon -as he would let me), and 
exclaimed involuntarily, ‘Valentine told you that he 
never did anything of that kind^ 

‘ Then I hope he never saw your sweet face cover 
itself with such blushes,’ he answered, with a low laugh 
of heartfelt amusement. ‘ But that was an extraordi- 
nary circumstance ; I wonder how it happened.’ 

1 replied, ‘ It happened partly because I never should 
have thought of allowing it.’ 

‘ How did you prevent it ? ’ he inquired with gentle 
deference, as he pulled the couch forward for me to 
sit on. 

‘I made a compact with him at first. I said he was 
not to be — absurd.’ 

‘You did? But sit down, my Margarita, my pearl, 
and tell me about this. You know it is my last day 
with you.’ 

He had pushed the couch into a sunny place, then 
he brought a long piece of matting, by way of a carpet 
for me, and chose to kneel on it, with his elbow on the 
seat of the couch, and look up. Something of the 
beauty I had seen when we two watched for Valentine 
in the night, had dawned upon his face. That strange 
fancy about a loveliness and sweetness which his own 
heart supplied, made him look as if he had got up into 
some higher and happier sphere. There was nothing 
for it but either to weep, or to rally my spirits and 
laugh. I chose the latter, and said, ‘ I shall not say 
another word till you get up.’ 

‘ Why not t why should I not be here ? ’ he answered, 
and laughed also. 

‘ Because — partly because I do not care to see you 
make yourself ridiculous.’ 

‘ What ! are you sensitive about my making myself 
ridiculous ? ’ 

‘ Yes, indeed. 


652 


OFF THE SEELLIOS. 


‘ A pleasant/ hearing ! But to make themselves ridio* 
nlous in this fashion is natural to mankind. — How 
charming it is to me to see you blush ! — Do tell me 
about that compact.’ 

‘ I shall not say another word till you rise and sit on 
the chair.’ 

‘ This sofa will do as well ; I may sit beside you — 
V alentine never once kissed you ! What could he mean 
by it?’ 

This was not by any means the view I had intended 
him to take of Valentine’s conduct; but I had declined 
his homage, and I was to be rallied instead. 

‘ I said to you that I should not have chosen to allow 
it,’ I replied. 

‘Sweet little peremptory voice! Valentine knew 
what he was about when he told me that. And all 
this talk, too, is like Enchanted English — it floats over 
to me with a comforting charm. This is a delightful 
hour, Margarita?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Considering how badly that plan answered, I can 
hardly be expected to follow it. I must look at his 
conduct in that particular as a warning.’ 

‘He did not say I had never kissed him. I did 
once, because it was necessary.’ 

‘Necessary? You are a strange creature — strange 
as sweet. Tell me why it was necessary.’ 

I told him, and he pondered over the little narrative 
for a while, saying, ‘He had told me several times 
before that day that he knew you loved him. I treated 
it with scorn always ; that day I went and fetched him 
home and told him he was right. — Well, this is some- 
tjiing like a confidence on your part : people only talk 
confidentially to those whom they trust.’ 

‘ I suppose not.’ 

‘ And like.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Did you talk so to Valentine when first you and ho 
were friends ? ’ 

‘Not exactly.’ 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 




‘ Why do you hesitate and look so delightfully shy ! 
I have never thought you shy. Does this place disturb 
you with recollections ? I ha fee to think it was here I 
refused to do the one thing you asked of me.’ 

‘Yes, I wondered at that: I asked you to pray 
^or me.’ 

‘And how could I do it? I could not send up such 
a lie to Heaven. I could not pray at all in your hear- 
ing without gross hypocrisy, when I knew that, even 
with no hope on my own account, I found the failure 
of that marriage such a respite, such a reprieve.’ 

‘As you could not do that, you are going to grant 
me a favor now.’ 

‘Yes, 1 am; what is it?’ 

‘You are going to try faithfully and earnestly to see 
through the glamour with which you have invested 
me ; — all this beauty and sweetness that you have 
invented yourself. I should prefer that you would see 
me as I am — with such good qualities as I have, and 
not these.’ 

‘Very well,’ he answered, and folding his arms, as it 
seemed, between joke and earnest, he began to look at 
me quietly and attentively. I soon found that I had 
done no good by this request of mine. Moreover, 
looking at him from time to time, it seemed, strangely 
enough, that his whole face and figure, his voice and 
his words, were fast acquiring a beauty and an interest 
that I had never found in them before. 

‘ And these good qualities that you really have,’ he 
said at last, ‘may I hear what they are, my pearl? 
What is your “favorite Virtue”? tell me that I may 
admire and cherish it.’ 

‘Certainly,’ I answered; ‘lest, when you find out 
your mistake, you should under-estimate me, for a 
change. I can be docile and faithful ; I am not unrea- 
sonable in my requirements ; and I never forget.’ 

He looked at me. ‘ These shall be added,’ he replied, 
‘ and I will, since you wish it, try to feign you other 
than you are. In return I ask you what you tliink yo^ 
should feel in my place ? ’ 


654 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


‘ How can I tell ? I flatter myself that I am without 
illusions as regards Margarita.’ 

‘Ah, you laugh.’ Then changing his manner, ‘You 
are very fond of little children ? ’ 

‘Yes, I love them.’ 

‘ Can you feign yourself in the place of some poor 
woman who, being in prison, sees her child outside, and 
hears it cry, in another woman’s arms ? Do you think 
that hers would ache for it, — specially if that other 
neglected it, starved it, and was cruel ? Can you feign 
yourself in the place of such a woman ? If you can, 
how would .you feel in the place of a man whose dear- 
est object in life had eluded his grasp before he had felt 
the comfort of expression and avowal? Think how 
impatience and regret and long restraint would wound 
and wear him. Can you tell how such a man would 
feel if he saw the blessing that his nature craved care- 
lessly used or roughly hurt by its owner ? If you can, 
then do you also think that when, as through some 
blissful enchantment, contrary to all sober hope, he 
found this being that he loved flung away, and lying 
on his breast, he would weary of holding her there 
Or would he find in her a long consolation — a once 
forbidden thing made holy and right for him ? Would 
he comfort her for what she had lost? would he be 
patient with her regrets for the past ? Tell me whether 
he would, and whether you can sympathize with him ? ’ 
Silence then. And soon after the grating of the 
carriage wheels at the corner of the wood. We went 
together to it, and so on to the station. Emily was 
within. St. George and I were both absolutely silent ; 
and when he had put us into the carriage to go on to- 
gether to the junction, where we were to meet Mr. 
Mompesson, he took leave of me with scarcely a word. 

That same evening I entered my new home. Such a 
quiet, pleasant home; such a comfortable, easy, and 
indulgent hostess; and such an afiectioiiate host! 
There was nothing to do, and I entered on a willing 
course of idleness, which it still surprises me to think 
of. Nature is evidently sometimes in need of repose* 


OFF TEE SKELLIG8. 


655 


my nature certainly wanted it ; and I uged to lie on the 
sofa for hours, in the gay little drawing-room, reading 
Bome book that amused me, or doing a piece of fancy- 
work. Also I had a letter, — a remarkably long letter, 
which I often read over ; the only real love letter I 
ever received. It was put into my hand at the station, 
and being written in a clear, round hand was easy to 
read, wonderful to ponder on, and very convincing aM 
well as comforting. 

I had pictured to myself that I should be so useful in 
the house, act like a daughter, save trouble to my kind 
hostess, and read aloud in the evening to my old friend. 
Nothing of the sort happened. Mrs. Mompesson had 
lately lost her two elder children by fever; the other 
two were delicate, and were kept very much in one 
temperature. I used to pity them sometimes, and go 
into their nice airy nursery to tell them stories, when 
the day was not fine enough for them to go out of 
doors ; but beyond this, and doing a little needlework 
for Mrs. Mompesson, I do not think I undertook any 
kind of useful occupation, and I soon perceived that no 
species of exertion was required of me. 

The only day of the week when I felt restless was 
Tuesday, because then I always had a letter from Mr. 
Brandon. It was not a love letter, — so he always 
said, for I had made an agreement with him that he 
was to write in a brotherly fashion, and try to be rea- 
sonable. These letters were very interesting, very 
amusing to me, and a great resource ; but the better I 
liked them, the harder it was to answer. This cost me 
a great deal of thought, and evidently betrayed to him 
the fact that absence was obliterating that intimate 
ease which we had begun to feel in one another’s 
society. I began to feel afraid of him, and my letters 
through February and March grew shorter and more 
reserved constantly. 

But the second week in March saw me suddenly, 
almost in one day, quite well, perfectly active, and as 
strong as ever. The sofa was intolerable. I began to 
teach the children, take long walks with them, and 


666 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 


wonder why it was that I had been so inert, I began 
also to copy out Mr. Mompesson’s sermons for him in a 
clear hand. This was a duty that his wife had long 
performed, but she was very glad to hand it over to 
me ; and it was soon made more interesting by his dic- 
tating them to me in the morning, instead of compos- 
ing them in his study and giving ire the manuscript. 
His sight was not good, and his ht^ndwriting being 
small, he could not read it in the pulpit. 

On the second Tuesday in April there was no letter 
The perversity of human nature being very great, 1 
was disappointed. Still I thought it must be because 
Giles would shortly appear; and I went out into the 
‘landslip,’ and walked with the children among the 
green trees, all delicate with their freshly-opening 
leafage. 

As I walked on the narrow pathway, lost in pleasant 
thoughts, a gentleman, whom I had not looked at, 
stepped aside to let me pass ; and when I moved care- 
lessly by, a delightful voice said, ‘ Dorothea.’ I looked 
up at him. No pretence of shyness could survive such 
an unpremeditated meeting; before there was time to 
consider he had expressed his delight at meeting me, 
and I had shown him my delight at seeing him again. 

We turned back, and walked homeward with the 
children. There was always an early dinner, but if 
Mrs. Mompesson had not expected a guest that day, I 
felt that I was very much mistaken ; and if Mr. Mom- 
pesson had not put on his best coat, and otherwise 
furbished himself up, I felt that my eyes deceived me. 

It was nearly four o’clock before . we left the dining- 
room. Then Giles said he had brought some papers to 
be signed. He had been made my trustee under the 
marriage settlement which never was completed, and 
my uncle now wanted to take back some property that 
had been made over to him for my benefit. I think 
this was the account he gave of his errand, and he went 
away telling me he should return in the evening. It 
was warm and fine, the French window was open, and 
I was sitting by it, when, in the gathering daikness, I 


OFF THE SKELLI08. 


657 


•aw him returning. He seemed unwilling to startle me, 
and did not enter till I spoke. What a little w^hiie it 
was since he had read me Valentine’s letter! Yet I 
was not now ashamed to feel that my heart had turned 
to him, and in my silent thoughts I vowed him a life- 
long fealty, and gave him my love and allegiance for 
evermore. 

Finding that he did not speak, but stood looking at 
me, as the moon pushed up a little rim from the sea, 
and shone on us with a yellow feeble light, I mentioned 
Valentine for the first time, and asked about his affairs. 

He answered, ‘I said to you this morning that I had 
come on business. I meant to have unfolded it all, but 
changed my mind. It concerns Valentine. It is high 
time that he should think of sailing.’ 

‘ And Lucy ? ’ 

‘I have seen Lucy again,’ 

^ She will sail too ? ’ 

‘ That depends.’ 

‘ On what does it depend, and on whom?’ 

‘ On you.’ 

‘ But I gave my full consent long ago, and I wrote to 
her. What more can I do ? ’ 

‘What do you think? She cannot make up her 
mind that she shall not wrong you by such a maniage.’ 
‘ I can but assure her that it is not so.’ 

‘ She is not easy to persuade ; she is thoughtful, and 
I like and admire her. She would improve and elevate 
Valentine, and I suppose she loves him.’ 

‘ And you believe that he really loves her ? ’ 

‘Yes, heartily.’ 

‘ And he must not risk another winter in England ? ’ 
‘No. And I promised you that I would promote 
their marriage. She did indeed suggest a proof of 
your contentedly resigning Valentine, that it was pos- 
sible you might one day give. She said it would be 
enough, and I considered that her words gave me a 
right to invade your quietude before the time you had 
mentioned. The real proof of Valentine’s being free 
would be your becoming engaged to another man,’ 

28 * pp 


658 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


As he said no more, I presently observed* with a cer- 
tain demureness, that I thought such a proot ought to 
satisfy any woman. 

‘ What may I say to her?’ he asked. 

‘Unless you can think of a more appropriate answer, 
you may say that (entirely, of course, for her sake) I 
will take the first opportunity that presents itself of 
obliging her.’ 

I could hardly believe it, when, an hour after this, the 
candles coming in, I took occasion to look at the pearl 
ring that I had got on my finger. It had seemed 
natural enough while we were alone together that I 
should be engaged again ; and I felt that the kind of 
deference which was habitual with him gave him power 
and mastery far more than any of his reasons and per- 
suasions, — more, indeed, than anything but the love 
itself which now he had scarcely skill either to conceal 
or to express. 

Considering that he was a little inclined to be jeal- 
ous now and then, a little unreasonably vexed when it 
occurred to him that I had lately been quite willing to 
marry some one else, it was a very fortunate circum- 
stance for me that just at first we had a good deal to 
do : letters to write to Anne Molton, letting her know 
what of my possessions she was to send me home, what 
she might keep for herself, and what was to be the 
property of Mrs. Valentine Mortimer; letters to my 
uncle and to Tom, these latter being copied and sent to 
three diflferent ports, as their best chance of being 
received. 

Then I wrote to Lucy, and to Lucy’s mother, and 
St. George superintended — made suggestions now and 
then, which I copied in ; and so when we read the let- 
ters aloud afterwards, we discovered that the grammar 
was confused, and that fresh letters must be undertaken. 
He also wrote to Valentine several times, setting forth 
his views as to what would be the best line of action for 
him to take ; but in these last a feminine instinct 
warned me to show as little interest as possible. 

I had presently shoals of letters from the family, full 


OFF THE SKELLIOS. 


659 


of love and congratulations. Dick h Court, also, as 
hoping soon to be one of the family, wrote, and deliv- 
ered his soul of various earnest reflections on life, and 
love, and duty. I found it very difficult to answer 
this eflTusion from my future husband’s future step- 
brother-in-law. Giles, however, read it, and said Dick 
was a dear good fellow, and that, next to commanding 
intellect, he thought there was nothing so attractive as 
honest aad sober dulness. So I answered it in the 
light of that opinion, and began to share it. 

Sometimes Giles had to go away for a few days. I 
should have been almost perfectly happy when we were 
together, but for his now and then choosing to talk of 
marriage. I was nervous still about this, and could not 
bring myself to believe that I ever should be married. 
I would not hear of such things as bridesmaids, a cake, 
wedding guests, wedding presents. I soon brought 
Giles to agree that none of these alarming adjuncts 
should come near me. 

Though I had no intention of hurrying my own wed- 
ding, I considered that Lucy and Lucy’s mother were 
very unreasonably slow in making up their iflinds ; and 
the more delicate Valentine became, the more tardy 
they were in fixing a day. 

Mrs. Mompesson seemed to think this very natural^ 
and one morning being called to our counsel by Giles, 
I observed her looking so very grave over one of Mrs. 
Nelson’s letters that I begged her to tell us what she 
thought of it. 

She thought it seemed uncommonly like breaking the 
whole thing ofil ‘ They were both very young — their 
means were not large — his health was so delicate ; but 
she would consult her brother-in-law, and had no doubt 
he would agree with her to allow it.’ 

I was very much vexed with Mrs. Nelson, not only 
for poor Valentine’s sake, but because anything which 
seemed to threaten uncertainty as to his prospects made 
me feel that St. George was inclined to be jealous stilL 
I was sometimes quite hurt, and often a little displeased, 
that he coaid dare to be jealous; but I would not ven- 


660 


OFF THE 8KELLIG S. 


tnre to say anything on the subject. I wanted to ignore 
the feeling altogether, till I should have made him quite 
forget that he had ever entertained it. 

In the mean time I was perfectly aware that new 
papers and paint, with certain renewings of carpets and 
hangings, were in progress at Wigfield. I remarked to 
Giles that it was eaidy days to think of these things 
yet, with any reference to me ; and he replied much as 
Valentine had done, only with gentlemanlike deference, 
that ‘time would show;’ he thought it behooved him, 
he remarked, to have his house ready at any time, as 
ours was not like an ordinary engagement. 

‘ In what respect ? ’ I asked. 

No preparations were needed, — no guests were to 
attend, — my trousseau, filling many boxes, was already 
at Wigfield, — we had no one to consult; it was evi- 
dent that I could be married whenever I pleased. ‘As 
to the settlements,’ he went on, ‘ I told your uncle what 
I possessed when first I hoped to win you ; and he said 
then what he should wish me to settle on you.’ 

On the afternoon when he talked thus he was going 
away, partly to superintend some alterations at Wigfield, 
and partly to consult with Dick, who, having come into 
about eighty pounds a year, thought with the thousand 
that Liz was to have, and his curacy, that they might 
set up housekeeping ; and as sister said they could not, 
and Emily was indignant at the very idea, Dick wanted 
to go abroad, get a chaplaincy somewhere in India, or 
go to Australia. 

I felt very sorry for them all when I got his first 
letter. Mrs. Nelson had now distinctly proposed that 
the young people should wait two years ; at the end of 
which time she hoped Valentine’s health would be 
restored. Lucy had consented with as much docility, 
and it seemed as much contentment, as if Valentine’s 
life, health, and love were all secured to her by special 
contract with Heaven. Valentine, on the other hand, 
was in a fury. He had been allowed to believe that the 
whole thing depended on me ; he was incensed with 
Mrs. Nelson, deeply hurt with Lucy, and the summet 


OFF TEE BKELLIOS. 


661 


weather having now come on, and bronght his summei 
health with it, he desired to go and show himself at 
once at Derby. But this Mrs. Nelson declined; ho 
was to wait awhile. All this was detailed to me by 
Giles and Mrs. Henfrey by letter ; and I could not but 
think that his health was what really alarmed Mrs. Nel- 
son, for she had not shown any remarkable delicacy 
about appropriating him on my account ; all this had 
come fi'om the daughter. 

I wrote to Giles begging that he would exhort Val- 
entine to patience, and also to importunity. In the 
mean time I took everything very easily myself, and 
when Giles came back and declared that if the Nelsons 
would not let Valentine marry at once, he would give 
up this engagement also, I could not believe it ; such a 
thing would so cover him with ridicule ; besides he 
loved Lucy, and she was supposed to love him. 

Giles took me out for a walk, and presently, as we 
sat on a lovely grass slope looking out to sea, he began 
to ask me to fix the time for our wedding. 

I begged him to leave it for a time. I could not 
believe that it would really take place, and wanted to 
rest in the peace and happiness of the present. But 
this view he did not share, and at last I proposed a day, 
— a distant one certainly, — and he was so dissatisfied 
with it that I asked him what his own views were. He 
replied, and laughed, that he thought next Wednesday 
w^ould be a good day. 

‘Next Wednesday!’ I exclaimed in amazement 
* why, this is Thursday.’ 

But there was no preparation needed, he replied, and 
the lovely white dress I had on would surely do to be 
married in. Wednesday had always been his favorite 
day; he should like to be married on a Wednesday. 

I began to look at my white gown; and he, choosing 
to consider that I was yielding to his arguments, began 
to press me further, till, becoming extremely nervous, 1 
begged him to desist, and confessed how completely 
the notion that something (I could not shape to myself 
any idea what) would certainly intervene to pi event 


662 


OFF THE 8KELL1G8. 


the marriage. It was the only remnant of the terror 
and suspense I had gone through, and when he rea- 
Boned with me it became more vivid, till at last he asked 
what I could possibly suppose would intervene. It 
must be a presentiment of death, he remarked ; noth- 
ing else could part us. No; it was not death; I could 
give no account of it. He wished to persuade me that 
it was nothing but a nervous fancy, that the longer I 
indulged it the worse it would become. 

What could possibly put it into his head, I inquired, 
that I would be married so soon. Next Wednesday 
indeed ! And though he argued the matter all the way 
home, and laughed a good deal over it, yet, as it had 
been proposed only half in earnest, he gave it up with 
a very good grace. But the next morning when he 
came to see me, I could not help observing that he was 
out of spirits, — so much out of spirits, that I really 
did not like to ask him the reason. We went to walk 
in the ‘ landslip,’ and sat down, and then he told me 
what was the matter. He had got a letter from Valen- 
tine ; Mrs. Nelson declined to make any change as to 
the two years that he was to wait ; he had positively 
refused to wait, and she had accordingly desired that 
he would return her daughter’s letters and give up the 
engagement ; which he had done / 

I was more than disturbed at this, I was even 
shocked. That Valentine should make himself ridicu- 
lous and behave ill, was nothing ; but that Giles should 
condescend to be jealous of him now (and he made 
this very evident) was more than I could bear, and I 
gpoke to him with an asperity that I am sure astonished 
him ; and when he answered gently, I burst into tears. 
This I could not bear. 

• And he wants to come down here,’ said Giles. 

‘ He shall not come,’ I answered ; ‘ I will not have 
him here.’ 

‘ Surely, my dearest, you are not afraid of seeing him 
again.’ 

Afraid ! Oh, how my whole heart rebelled against 
such an idea ! But I insisted that he should not come , 


OFF THE SKELL1G8. 


668 


he was always making some mischief in what concerned! 
me ; there would be no more peace if he appeared ; and 
being excessively hurt at seeing St. George’s discom- 
fiture, I declared that his being annoyed at this matter, 
jealous and disturbed, was almost cruel to me — very 
nearly insulting. 

‘ He shall not come,’ I repeated. 

St. George answered that he did not know how to 
prevent it. Valentine had left Wigfield, and gone with 
the Walkers to London. They would take lodgings, 
and might not write to give him their address before 
Wednesday. Valentine proposed to come on Thurs- 
day. 

Thereupon being destined to cure him of his jealousy 
once and for ever, but being only, to my own apprehen- 
sion, very angry with Valentine, and feeling hurt at the 
distrust of my love, I replied, — not without some of 
the most passionate tears I had ever shed, and not with- 
out certain upbraidings too, — ‘Very well then ; I said 
1 would not be married on Wednesday — should not 
think of such a thing, — but rather than he should 
trouble my peace, and see that you condescend to be 
jealous of him, — I will ! ’ 

If my recollection is correct, I said this in a some- 
what threatening spirit against Valentine, — he should 
find me gone, — and as to Giles I certainly meant it to 
mark my sense of his conduct which was displeas- 
ing me. 

But when I dried my eyes, and saw his face ; when 
I heard him say that he never would condescend to be 
jealous again as long as he lived ; and when I found 
that as we walked home together he was very silent, 
and never said a word about Wednesday, — I could 
not summon courage to mention it either ; but while I 
sat in my room waiting till it was dinner-time, and 
considering whether he would treat my words as if 
they had not been said with due consideration, Mrs. 
Mompesson came in. ‘Love,’ she said gently, ‘Mr, 
Brandon wants you to go out fishing this afternoon; 
but if I buy the silk for you, the dress can easily be 
made by Wednesday.’ 


664 


OFF THE SKELLIG8. 


This was said, I was certain, at St. George’s instance^ 
to discover whether I would hold to what I had said. 
I sat a minute, lost in thought, but my good angel 
pleaded with me ; St. George had gone through enough 
worry already, and too much, about me. When could 
there be a more coiivenier*^ time? and how could Val- 
entine be kept from making me uncomfortable if he 
came ? I had determined as we walked home to let 
things be ; so at last I said, ‘ He always promised me 
that I should walk to church through the fields. So as 
he is rather infatuated about a white morning-gown 
that I have, it would be better that I should wear 
that.’ Thus the thing was settled. 

We had letters from New Zealand on Monday; and 
to my deep delight and thankfulness I found that my 
dear Anne Molton would never feel my not coming to 
my house there, as I had feared. Anne had met with 
an excellent man, a missionary, and they had found 
each other so well suited that she had married him. 
It was not till Tuesday, the very day before my wed- 
ding, that I let Giles write and tell them all at Wig- 
field. I also, as well as he, wrote to Liz and Dick, 
and as Valentine was not now to go to New Zealand, 
we made over that house and everything in it to them. 
Liz was to have it instead of her portion, — a right 
good exchange ; for an English clergyman, as we had 
good reason to know, would be a most welcome arrival 
in that particular locality ; and if he had not a church 
to begin his ministrations in, he would have a barn, on 
which Giles had worked many a day with his own 
hands ; and Liz would have a garden that was the env’^y 
of the colony! 

I was very nervous ; the days of snow and silence all 
over the country, during which I had waited for a wed- 
ding already, kept constantly recurring to me unless 
St. George was by, and he would not allude to the 
past. 

At last Wednesday came. I woke, and could hardly 
believe it. We breakfasted precisely as usual; then 
the two children and their parents set ofi' on foot to 


OFF TEE 8KELLIG8. 


665 


the little qaiet church, and Giles and I followed over 
two or three fields. We sat down on a grassy bank, to 
put on some new gloves ; these were not white, how- 
ever, and 1, though I wore a white dress, as I usually 
did in the morning, had no other bridal array. I did 
not even then believe that all would go well. I had a 
vivid recollection of the telegrams. But we rose, and 
he took me on to the church, — a little rural building 
that Bt^od open. There I saw Mr. Crayshaw, who had 
come Irom London to give me away, — and no one else 
at all but Mr. Mompesson with his white gown on, and 
Mrs. Mompesson with the children. 

The ceremony actually began, and I perceived, almost 
to my surprise, that we certainly were being married 
after all ! But as if it was quite impossible that any- 
thing concerning me could be done as other people do 
it, all on a sudden, while Giles held my hand, a thought 
seemed to flash straight out of his heart into mine, 
that he had forgotten the ring. I was quite sure of it : 
he did not even put his finger into his waistcoat pocket, 
as a man might have done who had bought one and 
left it behind. There was no ring ; he had forgot- 
ten it. 

A pause. 

‘ Fanny,’ said Mr. Mompesson ; and Mrs. Mompesson, 
with all the good-will in the world, and with Mr. Cray- 
shaw to help her, tried to get her ring off her dear, fat, 
friendly hand, and tried in vain. 

Giles almost groaned. He had expected me to be 
more than commonly nervous; now seemed some 
ground for it; but real and sheer nervousness often 
goes off when there is anything to be nervous about, 
and I now felt very much at my ease, and whispered to 
Giles that a ring would be found somewhere. So it 
was. The clerk had darted out of the church at the 
first sight of Mrs. Mompesson’s hand, and in a few min- 
utes he returned, following a lovely, fresh-com- 
plexion ed, young woman in a linen sun-bonnet, and 
with a fat, crowing baby on her arm. She was out of 
breath, and coming up to Giles quickly, she thrust out 


666 


OFF TEE SKELLIOS^ 


her honest hand, and allowed him to draw her ring ofl^ 
and marry me with it. A healthy-looking young fel- 
low, in a paper cap, which he presently removed, came 
slouching in after her, and looked on, unable, as it 
seemed, to repress an occasional grin of amusement; 
and when the ceremony was over, they followed us into 
the vestry, and we all sat talking a little while, till 
some rings were brought from a shop for me, and Giles 
chose one and paid for it. Then I felt that I was Mrs. 
Brandon. 

He returned the ring he had used to the young 
woman, but I observed that she made her husband put 
it on for her again ; and as he did so, he remarked to 
Giles, with a certain quaint complacency, — that wives 
wanted humoring; and for his part (he might be 
wrong) he considered it was their due. Then in all 
good faith assuring him that he would never repent 
what he had that day done, he set his paper cap on his 
head, and retired with his family, while we, having 
taken leave of our friends, stepped out into the fieldSi 
and departed together to begin our story. 


University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridgfc. 


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Jean IfngelotD'?! projse TlllritinssJ* 


Novels. 

OFF THE SKELLIQS. A Novel. l6mo. $1.00. 

FATED TO BE FREE. A Novel. l6mo. $1.00. 

SARAH DE BERENQER. A Novel. l6mo. $1.00. 

DON JOHN. A Novel. $1.00. 

JOHN JEROME : HIS THOUGHTS AND WAYS. A Book 
without Beginning. l6mo. $1.00. 

Her stories possess such a natural and healthy tone, and are wrought up with such 
charming fancy, that they form the best food for those who live on novels, and the 
most delightful refreshment for those who take them only as a relish. There is no 
effort at boldness in plot, nor the unusual in situation, but enough of uncertainty is 
always present to fix and hold the attention. The principal charm of these stories of 
English life lies in their sterling lessons of truth and morality clothed in beautiful 
poetical language. 

Juveniles, 

STUDIES FOR STORIES. Illustrated. l6mo. $1.2$. 

STORIES TOLD TO A CHILD. First and Second Series. Illus- 
trated. l6mo. Each $1.25. 

A SISTER’S BYE=HOURS. Illustrated. l6mo. $1.25. 
MOPSA THE FAIRY. A Story. Illustrated. $1.25. 

Miss Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, 
and “ Mopsa” alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and 
gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work, 
which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot 
of fantastic absurdity ; but genius Miss Ingelow has, and the story of Jack is as care- 
less and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood. 

The young people should be grateful to Jean Ingelow and those other noble 
writers who, in our day, have taken upon themselves the task of supplying them with 
literature, if for no other reason, that these writers have saved them from the ineffable 
didacticism which, till within the last few years, was considered the only food fit fo» 
the youthful mind. — Eclectic. 


LIITLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY, Bocton. 



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